


Walk to the East

by orpheus_under_starlight



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Gen, Not all is as it seems, an exercise in fonic worldbuilding, shades of an ensemble, you have no control: who lives who dies who tells your story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-06-08 10:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orpheus_under_starlight/pseuds/orpheus_under_starlight
Summary: "—and you will discover great riches. If that reading came true, you would want to believe the next as well. Over the course of two thousand years, Yulia has caused mankind to become addicted to the Score." So Van believed—but was he entirely wrong? Is the Score truly indefatigable? One woman lives when she was meant to die, Lorelei watches, and shadows converge on Auldrant.





	1. prologue

 

Lorelei watches the end of the world unfold in a thousand different ways, every little difference branching out from the Score and its generalities, every path thrumming with a discordant note in the fabric of reality. No solution, no outcome that comes about as dictated by the Score, is a good one.

 

It will not do. For himself, for his scion, for the world; Lorelei hovers in the stillness and tries to fill the gap, but every time he reaches for light he is burnt by the walls of Yulia Jue’s pact. Constrained, he has no recourse but to reset—again and again—and hope that the ones the Score has forgotten about, the simplest things they do, will slip through the cracks and revolutionize his Auldrant.

 

At times, they succeed. Humans are such brilliant, ingenious creatures, after all. Some of the things his scion does surprises even Lorelei, and he has been Lorelei for longer than any of the other spirits, since before there was time and space. Once his scion even managed to divert He Who Would Seize Glory from his chosen path, though despite that, the flames of war had consumed the world. It was the closest the world got to a healthy survival.

 

So Lorelei comes to a conclusion: To save Auldrant, the Score must be destroyed… and only one who exists outside of the Score may bring destruction down upon it.

 

He sees. He watches. He waits.

 

Something approaches on the stream of time that winds about him like a chain—a ship, caught in a hurricane. This ship has been caught in this hurricane many times before. As always, Lorelei feels lives slipping away rapidly… but this time, something has commanded his attention beyond their cries. A moment in time ahead of them, there is something insignificant. Suspiciously so.

 

A young girl, clinging to a broken piece of wood that barely keeps her afloat. Her head is down; her eyes are closed. And Lorelei can feel nothing from her. None of his warmth resides within her, but then, neither does the raging heat of Ifrit, the ferocious tenacity of Sylph, or the cool, slow steadiness of Undine. Not even Gnome or Rem’s presences make their home in her.

 

She lifts her head and stares at the moonlit waves about her with half-lidded eyes, and Lorelei realizes that she, too, is near death—but she responds to his presence.

 

 _N.D. 1995: In the month of the sun, a storm shall rage off the coast of the frozen lands,_ comes the echo of Yulia. _It will ruin much, and nothing shall survive that is in its path._

 

“What… are you?” asks the girl, hazily, squinting at the dimly-lit sea. Her voice is young. Younger than Lorelei had thought, though when he looks at her he can see the record of her short life unfold before him.

 

She is an entirely normal little girl. Before this, she had been happy. Perfectly unremarkable, but utterly, blissfully happy.

 

In that moment, Lorelei makes a decision.

 

 _I am life,_ he tells her. _You shall live._

 

It’s a small, insignificant action. Unimportant. And for that very reason, the Score does not see one little girl wash up on the shore of a snowy island. She is unconscious, but there is a new warmth in her as she breathes in. A man with strong hands and an honest face happens upon her a few hours later, and rushes her into the local village to be examined by a doctor.

 

In the distance, far beyond Lorelei’s reach, Shadow’s interest stirs.

 

Lorelei recedes, lets the bonds of the pact push him back, and settles in to watch once more as he hopes against hope that this time, things will change.

 

-

 

“Hello, there. How are you feeling?”

 

A woman with closely-cropped brown hair raises her head and peers into the light of the dawn, searching for the source of the voice. There’s a chuckle. A moment later, a hot drink is being pressed into her hands.

 

“Right here,” says a man built like a bear to her left. He smiles at her as he secures his long hair in a ponytail. “You’ve worked hard, Wit. I am very thankful for your timely intervention.”

 

She looks around the room curiously. It’s nothing like the place she remembers passing out in; for one, there’s no snarling monster trying to rip one of her limbs off as it dies. The room is very clean and crisp—almost sterile, as impossible as it has to be considering the world she lives in, but close enough—and the walls are a calm shade of yellow, nicely complementing the dark floorboards and the off-white bed sheets. There are two windows, each on a different wall, and through them she can see that the balmy weather of Port Tatarise hasn’t changed one bit, despite her near-death experience.

 

Admittedly, a room this clean is a nice change. But still. Not what she remembers. The bandages on her arm and her torso weren’t there either, last she checked. She shifts uncomfortably, resisting the urge to unwrap them and check the damages.

 

“We’re in my home,” says the man. “My wife has been tending to you. I’m afraid that it’s been a few days, but your body needed the time to recover.”

 

“Well, I’m not dead,” Wit notes optimistically.

 

He smiles again, a crooked curve of the lips that makes the scar across his cheek distend strangely. “If that’s your brand of hope, I’d hate to see what despair looks like.”

 

“Can’t get much worse than a living hell,” she tells him, setting the drink aside and trying to sit up. To her surprise, there’s no pain involved in the motion. “Hmm.”

 

“Adelaide’s the best healer in this town. You’re good to go,” he says. There’s a proud gleam in his eyes that confirms the suspicions she’d had a few days previous, when she’d seen the two of them talking at a nearby cafe.

 

Wit nods. As she stands and slowly gathers her things, being gentle with her wounded arm just in case, she speaks. “I thought I recognized her. Adelaide Tatarise, the Scorer’s girl?”

 

“She’s Adelaide _Clemence_ now,” comes another woman’s voice, and in through the door Adelaide strides, a wide smile on her full face. Observant eyes scan Wit’s figure, and Adelaide begins scribbling something on an official-looking sheet. With one hand, she gestures vaguely in the man’s direction. “The Score is fortuitous indeed, bringing this bear and I together.”

 

“Must be. He’s got one hell of a right hook,” is Wit’s dry contribution. “Just as likely to kill the ladies as it is to captivate them.”

 

“Ah, but that right hook saved your life,” he counters, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied smirk.

 

“Sure did. Thanks for that, by the way.”

 

“You saved our daughter,” Adelaide says warmly. “Medical care was the least we could do.”

 

Wit shrugs. “I was around. I probably need to get going, too—you never know where other little girls are being threatened by monsters.”

 

“Lusa?” Adelaide raises an eyebrow at her husband.

 

He nods and holds up what looks like a medical chart. A cold chill goes down Wit’s spine. “I finished checking the basics about twenty minutes before she woke up.”

 

“Then let’s give her an overall assessment and get that paperwork in order.”

 

The whole process takes somewhere around fifty minutes. In that time, Wit figures out that her shoulder is stiff enough to need warming up despite the lack of pain in her forearm, Adelaide informs her that she should avoid critical battles for a few more days, at least—she didn’t spend all that time closing that nasty slash in her side up for nothing—and the doctor-patient confidentiality clause that Wit spots among the piles of forms forces an audible sigh of relief out of her.

 

“Scorers aren’t allowed access, either,” Adelaide adds when she spots the paragraph that Wit’s lingering on. They look at each other for a moment, silent, then away by mutual assent. Adelaide smiles, a smaller thing than before. “…Not that many come by this port since Father passed. Nothing much happens, here.”

 

“Tatarise isn’t terribly important,” Lusa agrees.

 

Adelaide nods. “But it’s nice.”

 

“Very nice,” Wit murmurs.

 

Another moment of silence passes.

 

“The Order will probably send more Knights,” Wit says eventually. “I’ve heard that they’re moving around the world. This isn’t the only port they’ve barged into under the banner of Score-related research.”

 

“That’s good to know… we’ll have to teach Ariel how to interact with them,” Lusa says. His jaw tightens. “Hopefully, other Knights won’t be so careless as to let children follow them to work.”

 

“There is always hope.” Adelaide’s raised brow lends a sarcastic slant to her words, and with that, Wit returns to her paperwork.

 

It’s only when they take her out for brunch at a dusty, well-worn cafe that she starts to realize just how comfortable a life Adelaide has made for herself: the moment they sit down, a waiter is serving them with a smile. He fills their cups with coffee, exchanges some friendly jabs with Lusa, and takes their order after setting up a playdate between Ariel and his own young son.

 

 _What sort of life is it,_ Wit wonders as they talk, _when you have the opportunity to stay in one place?_

 

“So, you’ll be heading back to Baticul soon?” Lusa asks, setting his cup down on the table. It makes a loud crack. Lusa smiles sheepishly. A server glances over at the loud noise, but rolls her eyes when she sees Lusa and turns back to her own business.

 

Wit shrugs. “I’ll be stretching my muscles a bit in Tataroo Valley first, but… yes. I will, I suppose. I must.”

 

Adelaide tilts her head. Her golden eyes hold Wit’s gaze, and she raises one impeccable white eyebrow. “Well, you’re welcome to stop by any time you’re in the area. Even if that whole mess hadn’t happened… I’m glad to know that you’re alive. Let me know a little more often, eh? I think our girl will be clamoring to at least hear you if she can’t see you.”

 

Wit nods and tries not to think about how being traced to somewhere, anywhere, will be bad—for her and for them. “I’ll send you a letter as soon as I return,” she promises. “Should be soon—a week or two. Baticul’s far, but it isn’t Sheridan.”

 

The first rule of travel is that nothing ever goes according to schedule.

 


	2. 1

Apparently, she’s interrupted boar mating season.

 

Wit groans to herself as yet another boar charges her. She dives to the side, rolls in the tall grass, and crouches in it as the boar turns in confusion. Its hide glints against the shadows of the trees and the grey faces of the rocky walls. In the night, it’s a boon. She squints, takes a breath, and starts chanting. “Great shadows of the night, take my enemies in your grasp and smother them in everlasting silence. May their light be subsumed by the darkness— _Torpor!”_

 

The shadows of the trees, slight as they are in the brightness of the moonlight, stretch out with long fingers and twist themselves around the boar. When the boar attempts to move and finds its legs stuck, it snorts. As the shadows travel up its body it shudders once, twice, then it gives a frightened squeal, struggling as all the other boars she killed earlier did.

 

 _Alas for this one,_ she thinks, shaking her head when the squeals abruptly cut off. _Its death was fated—_

 

“Yeah, no,” she says to the clearing. She laughs, brief and mirthless, as she stands and makes her way to the boar. It shudders again, muscles straining. “Not about that.”

 

It takes a few moments, but soon enough the boar is dead. Wit regards it with some sympathy. _Your brothers served as a good test of my arm. You? You just chose the wrong person at the wrong time. Sorry, buddy._

 

But nothing in the wild is without a use, at least in her experience. Wrinkling her nose, Wit gets to work. It’s a gruesome job, really, and the bigger the game is the worse the job gets (more material to work with, after all), but even with the gag-inducing stench she finds a decent amount of gald in its stomach and a small, dark jewel.

 

She makes a displeased noise when she pulls the jewel out and glares at it for a moment. After a long sigh, she puts it away and goes back to her task.

 

The night marches onward. Soon enough she is done, with the monster’s carcass safely moved to the side to await fonon decay; a fire crackles cheerfully, she has herself a nice bowl of stew, and she sits with her back against a tree and her eyes on the entrance to the valley just a few feet away.

 

Her arm twinges when she moves to lift the bowl to her lips. With a grimace, she puts the bowl back down. “I already stretched you out. Stop complaining,” she mutters, poking at it. She stops when the breeze changes, carrying an unusual sound with it.

 

“…any idea… are? You…”

 

 _A voice,_ she decides, figuring that it’s _probably_ not echoes from the mountains above. _Wonder how people got here without me seeing them? I’ve been here for three days…_

 

Whoever the owner of the voice is, they’re still a fair ways off. Wit hums to herself and finishes the bowl off, setting it aside for the moment. She hadn’t been planning on lingering. This, though? This might prove interesting.

 

Much closer by, and in the opposite direction, an awful-sounding screech heralds a dull thunk and the slamming of a carriage door. Harried footsteps follow a man’s frantic curses. Wit raises an eyebrow. “A carriage out here?” she murmurs, setting her bowl down. “Kind of unusual…”

 

All sorts of interesting things are happening tonight, it seems.

 

“Damn it all,” comes the man’s voice, and he shuffles through the mouth of the valley with his head hung low and his fists clenched. In the firelight, it’s easy to see that he’s a beefy sort. His clothing is loose and looks terribly comfortable—the sort that’s suited for long rides. It clashes with the way his hair is carefully combed back, and she wonders if the accident (whatever it was) had woken him from his sleep.

 

“Hello there, stranger,” Wit says to the man. He jumps and looks about until his eyes find hers, at which point he relaxes, if only slightly. Wit gestures to the pot by the fire. “If you’ve a bowl, you’re welcome to share. Sounds like you’re having a rough time of it.”

 

He heaves a heavy sigh, though he makes no move toward the fire. “Yes, I am. To think that my birthday Score didn’t foretell this trouble… What a day. I was counting on getting to Grand Chokmah by morning…”

 

“Definitely rough. I heard in the port to the west that a storm’s forecast to hit the capital tonight. There’s been all sorts of weather this year. Strange, hm?”

 

The art of conversation is a subtle thing, and information offered is a small measure of trust gained. He sits near the fire and sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bad news on a bad evening; he will not be happy to hear that the shadows have been longer, as of late, or that the days are short even on this sunny land-bridge awash in an eternal spring. Perhaps he will be pleased to know that the Oracle Knights are on the move, researching the matter in accordance with the Score, praying not only to Lorelei but to Yulia herself for guidance.

 

Perhaps. Perhaps not. He is a stranger; there is no need to tell him. Even those who reside within Daath itself tend to be blind to the inner workings of the Order of Lorelei.

 

Besides, she trusts the scientists more than she trusts the Order, trusts hard facts and hard work more than she trusts the decrees of fate, cold and ruthless, and the heady relief of knowledge where knowledge was not meant to be had. To say as much would be heresy, and Wit knows all too well what happens to heretics. She shifts, stretches her legs out, and the rough fabric of her shirt scrapes against puckered skin.

 

“Weather or no weather, I’m not sure what I’m going to do… one wheel’s broken off the carriage, and it looks like someone sawed nearly through it beforehand. I can hold my own in a fight, but at this rate, I’ll only make it to Engeve on foot.”

 

Wit hums. “Would you like me to take a look at it? I work in a smithy, but I’ve dabbled in carpentry and repairs before. I may be able to help. If nothing else, I can tell you where to go in Port Tatarise to get it repaired.”

 

At that the man smiles hopefully, though there’s still a worried slant to his brow. “That’s very kind of you, ah…”

 

“Wit. Pleasure to meet you…”

 

“Darius. Thank you very much,” he says as he stands, wiping the dust off of his trousers.

 

Her smile is a tad wan. “Oh, don’t thank me until we figure out if I can do anything. You may have to take a substantial detour.”

 

“Even so, I’m glad there was another person here,” Darius tells her. “Imagine if I’d had to eke it out alone! I’d be in poor spirits, and the attitude towards the journey makes half the difference, you know?”

 

Wit laughs at that. “Alright, alright. Let’s take a look at your carriage.”

 

-

 

“Luke, you can’t just do that!”

 

“Why not? It’s here, I’m hungry, and I sure as hell don’t see anyone else around.”

 

“…I can’t believe it…”

 

“Huh? Did you say something?”

 

“…Nothing.”

 

Wit tilts her head as she makes her way back to her campsite. It seems the voices she’d heard from the mountain were human voices, after all, and young ones besides.

 

And at least one is very rude, she notes. Darius, though understandably eager to get to Port Tatarise and repair his carriage, had at least been polite. Her lip curls. Best to do something about that—those boars had been a boar to harvest. She giggles to herself for a moment, then shakes her head. _Right. Doing things._

 

She strides back through the wide entrance and resists the urge to raise an eyebrow when her eyes fall on the mysterious owners of the voices. One girl, one boy, one Oracle Knight, one… noble? One _Fabre,_ judging by the red hair.

 

She was right. This will prove to be _very_ interesting.

 

“Well, well,” she says, making her presence known. The boy visibly jumps while the girl merely turns, an apologetic look already taking form on her face. “What have we here? Uninvited visitors in my camp?”

 

“…I am so sorry, ma’am,” says the girl, bowing her head. “We didn’t know there was anyone here, and he saw the food, and…”

 

The boy tilts his head as he chews. “What kinda meat is this, lady? It’s pretty good.”

 

The girl sighs, humiliated.

 

Wit finds herself pitying the poor girl, who seems to be acting as the boy’s minder. It’s not too uncommon to see clueless nobles wandering the country, but she’s only heard a grand total of five sentences from this boy and she can already tell that he’s special. If he is who she thinks he is, it’d make sense, but—assumptions. She knows better than to act on half-cocked presuppositions.

 

She shifts on her heels, keeping her hands visible in the firelight and away from the warhammer strapped across her back. “Hmm… that sure is a question. But you both seem hungry, and I’ve eaten already. How about this: Tell me your names, and I’ll consider it payment for the food.”

 

The boy looks baffled. “Why do we have to—ow! The hell? What was that for, you frigid—ugh!”

 

“My name is Tear,” says the girl, bowing her head again as she moves her foot off of the boy’s. “His is Luke. Thank you so much for your kindness, miss…”

 

“Wit. The name’s Wit.” She resumes her previous seat and smiles sympathetically at Tear. “They get more fun the higher up you go in the city, huh?”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke demands. It’s somewhat less threatening than he probably intends it to be, considering that he says it through half a mouthful of broth.

 

Tear just shakes her head and swallows a chunk of meat. “You must be from Baticul, then? I suppose so. Personally, I didn’t know that they could be this clueless…”

 

“Well, everyone has to learn,” Wit says, eyes flicking to the brief expression of hurt on Luke’s face before it’s replaced by anger. “How much you have to learn just depends on upbringing, you know? Sometimes people learn more about practical things, and other times they learn more about intellectual things… or they take to the blade, disregarding all else.”

 

“That’s true. Though it can be hard to remember,” Tear says, sitting near to the fire. The visible portions of her face look tired. Her lips are pulled down slightly at the corners, she gazes into the flames with a distant look, and her uncovered eye is narrowed against the force of either Luke or some internal irritation. It’s hard to tell.

 

Blessed silence ensues as the pair consumes the last of the stew. She can’t complain; the stew is going into human bellies and not the belly of the earth. With a stew as half-decent as that, it’d be a shame to have to throw it out.

 

Wit waits until Tear puts her bowl down, then surrenders to her curiosity and asks. “So, what brings two kids like you out here?”

 

One beat. Another. Luke opens his mouth. Tear’s expression immediately becomes pinched.

 

“We lost our way—” she starts to say.

 

Luke looks very nearly offended at this apparent gross understatement. “It’s all her fault—”

 

“I told you, I didn’t know that would happen—”

 

“—Why would you even try to attack Master Van in the first place? I can’t believe you—”

 

“—I have my reasons—”

 

“—You’re crazy, anyways, you cold—”

 

“Whoa, whoa, stop,” Wit says, waving her hands. “I can tell that the story is… complicated. I won’t pry. Just, if you were hoping to go to Grand Chokmah by land, there’s supposed to be a big storm hitting soon.”

 

“Grand Chokmah? No… we’d like to go to Baticul,” Tear says with a frown.

 

 _Huh._ How terribly interesting, all things considered. She tilts her head. “Tataroo Valley’s an awfully strange place to be if you’re headed to Baticul. Most people head south along the road and catch a boat from Chesedonia.”

 

“What? Where the hell are we?” Luke crosses his arms and glares at Tear, whose lips thin with the effort of restraining herself.

 

“…Tataroo Valley, Luke. We’re in Tataroo Valley.” Tear nearly seems to force the words out.

 

Luke, on the other hand, makes no effort to hold himself back and rolls his eyes. “Yes, but where is this?”

 

Tear is silent.

 

“You don’t even know?”

 

“I took,” Tear says, teeth gritted, “a geography course.”

 

“Hey, now, let’s not get too panicked,” Wit cuts in, internally marveling at the sheer animosity roiling between the two teenagers. She rummages through her bag for a moment and brings out a well-loved, carefully-bound roll of parchment. “Everybody has to look at a map from time to time. Why don’t you look at this one? It’s a bit old, but it should still serve well enough.”

 

“That would be nice. Thank you,” Tear says, spreading the parchment out carefully on the ground. “Luke, we’re here.” She points at a spot near the middle of the map. “If we want to get back to Baticul, we’ll need to follow this route.”

 

Luke gazes on with lidded eyes as Tear plots a course on the map. _Half-interested_ would perhaps be too charitable a description, Wit decides. “Sure, whatever. As long as you know where we’re going.”

 

“…I should be able to get us back, yes.”

 

“How about I help you out?” Wit offers as Tear hands the map back to her. She keeps the suspicion that the two of them together couldn’t keep a route straight if they tried to herself, instead putting the map away. “I’ve been at this traveling thing for a fair while, and it’s about time for me to report back to my smithy in Baticul. It’s always nice to have extra hands when you’re on the road.”

 

“She’s one thing, but _you?”_ Luke asks with a scowl.

 

Wit smiles at him. It’s a _nice_ smile. “I cook. Do you?”

 

“…Fine, whatever.”

 

“We’d be grateful for your assistance,” Tear says, relief shining through in her voice. “Please take care of us. I would like to leave as soon as possible…”

 

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Let’s work well together,” Wit says, getting to her feet.

 

“Just don’t get yourself hurt. Her healing artes _will only go so far,”_ Luke mutters. He ignores the look that Tear shoots in his direction.

 

-

 

Colonel Jade Curtiss considers himself to be a fairly level-headed man in most circumstances—perhaps too level-headed, even, because his calm as he tilts his head to the side to avoid a very large scythe that whistles through the air in his direction has some of his newer men shooting him terrified looks.

 

Hm. Not preferable. He’d picked those recruits himself. If they can’t handle seeing strange things in tense situations, they won’t survive very long.

 

“Largo the Black Lion,” he says, stance crisp, posture perfect. He gestures to Kain behind his back, and the aide disappears into the interior of the Tartarus. When the young man is gone, Jade’s fingers remain crooked. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such a greeting?”

 

Largo’s chuckle is rather dark. “Word has it that you’ve kidnapped our Fon Master. It’s the duty of every Oracle Knight to defend him—and that includes rescuing him from the clutches of the Necromancer, if need be.”

 

Jade smiles. Largo smiles. Why wouldn’t they? After all, it only makes sense. A lost Fon Master would certainly need to be recovered, and who better to go after him than the God-Generals? It all seems so simple. Clear-cut. A truth bathed in black and white.

 

Necromancers are cloaked in shadows and the whispers of the arcane, and Oracle soldiers are the white knights who save Fon Masters from the evil such sorcerers wreak in the darkness.

 

It only makes sense. Doesn’t it?

 

Jade’s arte explodes under Largo’s feet. Largo leaps back and smiles in thanks as his scythe is dropped back into his hand by a winged monster. He gears himself up for a charge, then cocks his head and instead leaps back again—and just in time. Bullets whistle through the air. Jade throws himself to the side and hurls his spear at the highest arch of the Tartarus’s deck. As the spear reaches the highest point of its trajectory, a blond woman with two pistols is forced to leap from her perch and land behind Largo.

 

He calls his spear back into his arm and readies himself for another strike—

 

The sixth fonon swirls in the air, actualizing itself, manifesting with an impressive degree of strength. It creates a barrier between Jade and the enemy while a teenager with pink hair and a stuffed animal clutched in her arms leaps off of a liger and dashes to Largo’s side.

 

“We can’t find the Fon Master,” says the older woman to Largo, keeping a careful gun trained on Jade. That’s fine. The sixth fonons are interfering with the gradual explosion of fifth fonons he’s been building under their feet, and while they won’t stop his spear, to incite further hostilities than is needed would be wasteful.

 

The teenager stomps her foot. “That Anise probably took him away when we boarded!”

 

 _Anise may be playful, but she follows orders,_ Jade thinks to himself, eyeing his opponents just as they are eyeing him. _By now, she will have. Though it’s probable that the lower levels have been invaded—unless Kain managed to get to the bridge in time._

 

He has no time to hope. If he wants any, he’ll have to create it. The wood grain of the deck feels hot underneath his feet; the sun beats down on his hair. He ought to have tied it back before this whole mess began, but these guests were somewhat unexpected. Somewhat.

 

From the interior, he hears the screams of men, both of his and of the men belonging to the Oracle Knights. Kain will need to initiate the secondary plan, then. He can only bring himself to feel a rather distant regret that there will be families to whom a son or a daughter will not return. It is tragic, and to forget that aspect of human life would do a disservice to those lost under his command.

 

But his larger concern, at the moment, is navigating this situation with all the finesse required to pull off the new plan brewing in his mind. He’s certainly more than capable of improvisation. The only thing is that at this level, he’ll have to take care to lay all the false tracks he can.

 

“Calm, Arietta. Legretta. The ship has been searched?” Largo asks.

 

“We’re getting there,” Legretta mutters, glancing at Jade with a clear wariness that makes him want to sigh.

 

She’s heard of him. She’ll know what to expect, then.

 

“Lovely as this little party is, I can’t say I entirely approve of my staff being killed off as-is when I’ve invested so much effort into them,” Jade says, even-faced. “I’m afraid you’ll need to leave. We’re quite busy, after all, and such gross accusations belong elsewhere. There is no kidnapped Fon Master here.”

 

Largo laughs at that. “Aren’t you the crafty one? We’ll have to see— _damn!”_

 

Jade lets the arte go and doesn’t stop to pay attention to the explosion. It doesn’t matter if they manage to dodge; the particular combination of first and fifth fonons serves to create a spectacular smoke-screen, which he uses to dash into the interior of the Tartarus and slam his fist into the nearest alarm. He quickly shuts the door with a series of inputs on the nearby console, then makes his way through the dimly-lit corridors to the nearest voice command module.

 

He breathes in, then out. It’s not a calming gesture. He’s calm. He’s just taking a moment to account for all the different variables that can and will result from this. “By my name as Necromancer, heed my command,” he says into the module. “Initiate emergency plan ‘Corpse Hunt’. Ah… and ‘Fonic Embrace’, as well.”

 

As the lights power down, first fonons flood the Tartarus, and he makes his way to the exit route in his quarters, he smiles.

 

Searching for the Fon Master, are they? They’ll have to escape from Tartarus first, and when they do that, they’ll find themselves in St. Binah.

 

It’s really quite a shame that there will be no one left to guide them out.

 

Colonel Jade Curtiss has a contingency plan for every situation, and backup plan upon backup plan for that. He hasn’t found the source of the fonic disturbance in Tataroo Valley, nor has he gotten Ion to Baticul, but he will.

 

Just as soon as Kain and Anise catch up with a very determined Fon Master and the “mercenary” in his company headed for Chesedonia.

 

-

 

The road, Wit finds, is far noisier than she’s used to. Both of her new companions are full of things to say—even Tear, surprisingly enough, though mostly in relation to Luke’s unparalleled verbal output.

 

Her eyes drift to the side and she smiles wryly. Luke is full of questions. He asks some of them. He thinks he doesn’t ask most of them, but his habit of mumbling to himself while writing in his journal is not exactly conducive to secrecy. Tear, on the other hand, spends a great deal of time lost in thought when she’s not being provoked by Luke. On occasion, she’ll look at him with an absent frown and stare into the distance; at other times, she’ll stare at her feet as she walks, silent and troubled.

 

That state of affairs, of course, discounts all their many and varied arguments—the ones that spring out of what sounds like a mutual misunderstanding and disdain. She’s still not quite sure about the particulars of what, exactly, happened between them, or why Luke fon Fabre seems to be among the most clueless members of the upper crust in Baticul, but what’s clear to see is that it irks Tear like no other, and Luke isn’t so much disdainful of her personally as he is what she apparently tried to do to a man named Van. He only brings it (and his apparent apprenticeship to the man) up at every possible opportunity, which has her incredibly curious, because Wit only knows of one man with that name who could possibly move about freely in the nobles’ levels in Baticul. If it’s the same Van she’d seen fight off successive waves of monsters in Engeve a month ago, well, her life is certainly getting interesting.

 

If Tear tried to kill _Commandant Van Grants_ , leader of the Oracle Knights, damn. Something big really is going on in the world if someone so clearly situated in the Grand Maestro’s faction decided to take legitimate action against the man with the most power in the Order—but why Tear, who wears the robes of a Melodist and wields the staff of a Locrian Sergeant? What could drive her to make such a suicidal move?

 

Wit considers this as she sips her coffee and watches Tear teach Luke how to recognize when an arte is being cast. The innkeeper had raised an eyebrow when she’d asked if there was a flat, relatively clear field anywhere near, but had let them use the inn’s yard regardless. Passerby give them curious glances. Some of the children of the village had been watching earlier, but Luke had gotten embarrassed and threw a bit of a fit, scaring them off. He’s calmer now, but not by much.

 

“Luke, listen,” Tear says, frustration crossing her face. “I’m trying to help you. If you learn this, you can heal yourself and us the next time we tangle with a monster like the one in the woods.”

 

“I still shouldn’t have to,” Luke mutters, kicking the ground with his foot. He hasn’t been able to draw fonons in with the efficiency a boy his age should be capable of; to Wit’s eyes, it’s almost like he’s hardly used his fon slots. Strange, considering that he’s apparently a Seventh Fonist and the Order highly encourages the training of all Seventh Fonists—regardless of membership status. Surely things can’t be _that_ different in Baticul’s upper levels. “It’s stupid. I don’t need it.”

 

“Very well. Think of it like this: even if you don’t need it, we might. What happens when you’re the only one left standing on the battlefield, Luke? Things happen. Battle is chaos. Even the best soldier is going to get dropped sometimes, and when that happens, they need to have someone on their side who can heal them—if not revive them.” Tear crosses her arms. Her spine is a rigid line of tension and her lips are pulled taut with annoyance.

 

She’s finally fed up, it looks like. Wit finds her level of tolerance impressive. Luke looks at her with wide eyes, dumbstruck by the sudden severity and danger in her voice.

 

“If you want to be angry at the world, do so on your own time,” Wit contributes, doing her level best to keep her face and her voice neutral. Someone has to be the rational one in regards to this particular argument, which Luke and Tear have rehashed several times over the course of the past week. She ignores the glance they from the ornately-dressed green-haired boy walking past the yard. “Selfishness has no place in combat. Get us killed by being unable to help when we need it and you’ll have to find your way back to Baticul yourself.”

 

Luke looks horrified. Wit finds herself feeling a tad guilty, despite the annoyance that had sharpened her tongue. He is only a boy, after all, and he’s a soft, untested boy who’s never had to do a thing for himself in his life. As far as she knows.

 

That, she thinks, is the key. _As far as she knows._ All the signs point to it, but all the signs also point to his complete lack of consideration for others having a deeper root than mere complacence.

 

“…Exactly. You don’t have to fight, if you can’t take it. We’re capable of protecting you. But soldiers can’t allow for liabilities. So, what will you do?” Tear asks.

 

Luke is silent for a long while.

 

“…I’ll fight,” he says eventually, looking at both of them with an earnest expression that Wit’s certainly never seen before. His fingers twitch toward his hair before he stills them by curling them into fists. “I won’t be a burden. I’ll learn this. Just tell me what I need to do.”

 

After a tense moment, Tear nods. “Alright. First, you need to understand that seventh fonons are incredibly important because they make up the building blocks of life…”

 

Two more days until they reach Chesedonia. Wit stares into the dark liquid in her cup, thoughts bent on the shadows, the green-haired boy she’d pointedly ignored earlier, and the double-take he’d done when he’d seen Luke.

 

 _I have a bad feeling about this,_ she thinks, and glances up. Despite his best efforts, Luke’s face has already gone vacant.

 

_…Called it._

 

The thought provides her no comfort.

 

-

 

The brilliant, blazing sun casts the plains on either side of the road in fierce shades of golden reds and oranges, and the grass stretches out in the wind blowing in from the desert on the other side of Chesedonia, painted a dull sienna by dust and the sunset. Wit glances out to the left, where the horizon sits just above the cliff line, and smiles. The ocean stands tall in the distance—indomitable as ever. From the road, it’s impossible to tell how choppy the waves are.

 

 _A shame,_ she thinks, turning back to the path ahead of them. _I would’ve liked to see how rough the water is before we set out from the port._

 

“Is that the ocean?” Luke asks, having followed her line of sight. “It looks… different. From Baticul, I mean,” he adds, a tad too quickly.  

 

“You think so?” She nods in the direction of Chesedonia, where dark shapes are visible in the waters. “Might be the way the city looks. The port is in the lower areas over there. We’ll probably find an inn and rest for the night, restock on supplies in the morning, and find a ship to Baticul after that. It’ll be nice to get a bit of a break from all the fighting.”

 

“It will, yes,” Tear says. She had bowed to the need to escape the heat about noon and pulled her hair up into a ponytail; more of her face is visible, revealing the clear blue of both her eyes—a familiar color that Wit can’t quite place. A slight frown pulls at her lips, as it so often has in the course of Wit’s short acquaintance with her.

 

Everyone’s got their secrets, but whatever Tear’s carrying with her, it seems like it’s eating her.

 

Luke glances at Tear. He doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “I thought you liked fighting.”

 

“I’m a soldier. Fighting is my duty… I don’t necessarily enjoy it,” is all Tear says to that with a shrug of the shoulders, weary from both the long day and the many, many times she’d been forced to sing what Wit suspects is a Yulian fonic hymn.

 

Even the monsters have been uneasy about the world lately. There’s little else to explain the skittishness and the odd behavior that’s been present in so many of their encounters with them on the road--monsters that she's never seen outside of a pack, like the chimeraelings usually found north of Engeve, were practically throwing themselves into battle on the road south out of Port Tatarise. It had gotten Luke a crash course in the effects of mild poisons, but to see chimeraelings so far out of their natural habitat on their own? Unheard of.

 

Luke kind of humphs, unimpressed, and turns back to the road. “What sort of city is Chesedonia, anyways? It looks dirty, except for that shiny place over there.”

 

“That’d be Aston’s mansion,” Wit says. “He’s a merchant. He made Chesedonia what it is today… a successful city-state sponsored by the Order of Lorelei. The city is the center for most of the world’s trade because of its independence, and there are many ways to disappear into its depths, if need be.”

 

“Huh? That sounds creepy!” Luke’s eyes widen. He looks at the city with new eyes. “I could disappear in there?”

 

“I wouldn’t recommend trying it,” Wit warns, eyes curving up with her smile. The implication earns her a scowl.

 

Tear nods, looking thoughtful. “I’ve been told that it’s rough going. The ones who would help you do that don’t take too kindly to nobles of any sort, thanks to a minor diplomatic spat that happened a few years ago with some Malkuthian nobleman’s son and a girl from one of the shadier areas in the city.”

 

“The nobleman’s son was actually Kimlascan,” Wit comments. “The story always gets mixed up. According to a friend of mine who was there at the time, they fell in love, to the displeasure of their respective communities. The son got himself killed in a local fight for her honor.”

 

Tear hums in acknowledgment of the new information. She pauses, then forges ahead. “And… the girl?”

 

“She lived, but she moved to Malkuth at some point afterward. Last I knew, anyways. Regardless of the exact facts, the way the boy’s father handled the situation was… less than tactful. It took a representative from the Order of Lorelei and a reading of the Score to calm him down and keep him from trying to take action against the girl, and the community had a rough time of it while those proceedings were going on. They had far more attention than they wanted.”

 

“That’s all too complicated, and they sound stupid anyways,” Luke says dismissively. “I just want to get to an inn and sleep already…”

 

Wit and Tear exchange an exceedingly dry glance. “Give it time,” Wit advises, not quite able to prevent a hint of sarcasm from leaking into her tone.

 

Tear reaches back and adjusts her ponytail. “We have to keep walking to get there.”

 

“I know that! What do you think I am—stupid?” Luke asks with a profound look of derision. He starts moving ahead of the two women. “Come on. If we walk faster, we’ll get to an inn faster, right?”

 

“Sure,” Wit decides, and smiles when Tear quietly shakes her head.

 


	3. 2

Fon Master Ion may look like a stiff breeze could blow him over in the wind, but when it comes down to it, he’s one of the most determined people Guy has ever met.

 

It’d been a strange set of circumstances that had led to the meeting itself, really, which seems only fitting—it isn’t every day your dumbass friend teleports himself halfway across the world and you get sent to retrieve him, like he’s some sort of lost pet. Guy catches himself in the thought— _ hey, it’s not quite like that, _ he reminds himself, striding from the village gates as the Fon Master trots beside him.  _ Luke was going to be out of the mansion in a few years anyways, and I put that sort of bitterness aside for his sake. _

 

_ Even if I still wanted it, holding onto it wouldn’t help. ‘You can’t move forward if you keep looking back’, right? _

 

He knows that now, though a few years ago, he wouldn’t have seen the point. But bitter or not bitter, he’d still been sent to retrieve Luke, so off he’d gone to where Van had suspected the hyper-resonance (damn the uncertainty Van had tried to convince him he had, Guy’s done enough reading to know what a hyper-resonance is supposed to look like— _ and _ also known him long enough to tell when he's lying through his teeth) had taken him and Mystearica. He’s heard stories about her for years, but that’d been the first time he’d actually  _ seen  _ her. 

 

_ What a meeting, _ he thinks dryly.

 

There was nothing in Tataroo Valley to suggest that Luke had been around, which had been disappointing with how much effort Guy had put into getting there quickly. It just felt a little uncool. Still, his visit to the local port across from the valley had revealed that yes, there’d been a strange red-headed boy with two companions who had come through, and yes, he’d been absolutely clueless until his companions—both females, one older, one younger—had informed him about the basics of economic exchange. Nobody knew where they were headed to, though a local doctor guessed that they’d be going to Baticul. Apparently she knew the older woman. Nice, quiet, saved her daughter a while back. 

 

“Your friend is in good hands,” the woman had said, a smile in her golden eyes. “Wit tries hard to live up to her words.”

 

_ Who names their child ‘Wit’? _ Guy had wondered to himself. The thought immediately reminded him of Luke, who would totally ask something like that and piss the wrong person off, so he thanked her for the information and absconded. He had ultimately decided to try to catch a coach to Chesedonia… and that was when Ion had quite literally tumbled into him, taking them both down. 

 

“Guy?” Ion says, drawing his attention. Ion looks down. “My apologies for forcing you to take the long road. I know you were planning to take a coach when I ran into you…”

 

Man, kids these days. Guy smiles and shakes his head. “No worries, Ion, though I appreciate the thought. I was free to refuse Jade’s offer. I didn’t refuse because as far as I can tell, you’re right. It would be worse if my friend got himself tangled up in all this business before I found him, and I’ve got a feeling that he’s headed for the same place we are, you know? He wouldn’t know where else to go.”

 

“Your friend sounds like a very interesting person,” Ion says, smiling, and there’s something about him that tells Guy that he actually means it. 

 

Guy hums a bit, feeling more optimistic about the journey that seems to lie ahead all of them. If Luke has more than one person he can get along with, it’ll be much less of a pain to travel with him. “Well, interesting is one word for it… hey, let me know if you get tired, okay? I’m more than capable of carrying you.”

 

“Oh, I don’t want to be more of a bother,” Ion insists. 

 

“You’re not a bother. I decided to help you of my own free will, remember? There’s no need to try and be cool.” It’s a gentle needling, but Ion’s face goes a little pink anyways. Poor kid isn’t Luke by any means; makes sense, since he’s the Fon Master and all, but he’s probably not used to a bit of good-natured ribbing. “Everyone is made differently; we all have different strengths. The kind of power you wield doesn’t need a sword to be effective, and personally, I think that’s pretty valuable itself. It may not be much, coming from someone you just met, but that’s how I see it.”

 

His words seem to get through to Ion; his head tilts as he absorbs the information, and the tight smile gentles into something a little less embarrassed. “Thank you, Guy,” Ion says eventually. “You’re very kind.”

 

Sometimes, when people say things like that, Guy wonders what they’d think of him if they knew what he’d done as a young, angry teen. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Let’s see how far we can get today, alright? When I was in Chesedonia last, I heard that a sandstorm was going to hit. It wouldn’t be fun to get caught up in that.”

 

At that, Ion frowns. “That’s odd. I hadn’t heard anything about it in the cathedral…”

 

“Oh? Maybe it’s the Planet Storm again,” Guy says, tone light, glancing up at the sky. It’s a clear blue as far as the eye can see, with the fonstones floating faintly in the atmosphere, the sun shining brightly overhead, and absolutely nothing to indicate that there’ll be inclement weather any time soon. Part of that is that they’re still a ways away from Chesedonia (the ocean isn’t even in view yet), but the other part… Pere’s kept his ear to the ground in their time in service to the Fabre household, and when Guy had left, the last news from their old friends had been that the Order was dispatching research teams not only across Auldrant, but specifically to the Absorption and Radiation Gates. “Hasn’t it been acting a little funny recently? There’s been some out-of-season storms in Baticul, the past few months.”

 

“Perhaps that’s it,” Ion murmurs, shifting the staff of his office from his right hand to his left. He seems troubled.

 

Guy finds that he can’t blame him. 

 

-

 

“A storm, a sandstorm… what’s the difference?” Wit asks a shadow in the alleyway next to the inn, mindful of the way that the sky has begun to darken to brown instead of the orange of a desert evening. She shakes her head. “I’d leave soon, if I were you. There won’t be much room for dancing, not with this sandstorm.” Her hand tightens on the nondescript letter in her pocket. “Or with the storm of Knights that’s come through recently.”

 

A rich laugh, like honey and wine. “My, are you worried about us, dear Wit? You might’ve made quite the Knight yourself; you’re looking quite handsome right now, you know.”

 

“I’m just keeping it short for convenience,” Wit says, rolling her eyes at the pointed glance in the direction of her hair. She resists the urge to finger the choppy brown strands at her neck. There’s no point in adding fuel to the fire; the woman she’s talking to has a penchant for teasing the unwary, and Wit’s walked into enough of her verbal traps to know very well what will come if she gives in to the bait offered. Noir’s running theory has always been something along the lines of  _ well, if you’re going to call yourself Wit, you might as well be deserving of the name, hon. _

 

Nosy, nosy. She’s not one of Noir’s flock, not really. Not in the ways that matter.

 

“That so? It suits you. Grim… mysterious… you’ll break a boy’s heart if you’re not careful.” Noir smiles at the way Wit shifts. “It’s nice to see you like that sometimes. You’re too serious, you know? Kinda like someone else I know…” A beat, no reaction. Noir sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll be seeing you later, hon. Same time?”

 

Wit nods. “Thank you, Noir. I appreciate it.”

 

“Appreciate it by coming by and playing with the kids again sometime,” Noir tosses back at her, already sashaying down the alleyway to where York and Urushi are waiting. “They miss you.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” Wit calls after her. “I’ve got a feeling I won’t have time for a while…”

 

“Excuses, excuses.”

 

With that, the Dark Wings fade into the shadows, leaving Wit standing alone, staring into the alley, a letter in her hand and foreboding in her heart.

 

“Wit?”

 

The voice comes from behind. She turns and her heart nearly seizes in her chest.

 

“Oh, good,” says the green-haired boy from the village, leaning heavily on his staff. His very ornate, official-looking staff that confirms all the suspicions she had the last time she saw him. He looks winded, and for a moment a bizarre thought strikes her— _ surely he couldn’t have run the whole way here? _ —before it’s swept away in the ensuing flood of alarm bells ringing in her mind. “That is your name. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but your friends wanted you to come inside before the storm hits. I volunteered to come get you…” He trails off and coughs, covering it with his arm. He pulls away too quickly for her to be sure, but she thinks she sees flecks of red. 

 

“Sure,” Wit says, a tad bewildered and privately more than a little suspicious as she tucks her letter away. Even if he is staying incognito in the same inn you’re staying in, you don’t just tell the  _ Fon Master,  _ religious authority of all the known world, to fetch a companion. But here Ion stands with a gentle smile, waiting for her to come in, and niceties get you further in life than bared teeth. “My apologies… may I ask what your name is?”

 

“Ion,” he says. Smiles again, like the name itself doesn’t resonate with fonons and whispers of foundations and secrets.

 

“Ion, then. Nice to meet you. I have to admit, I’m a tad curious… Might I ask why you volunteered?”

 

“Well, you see… your friends are having a little argument…” Watching him, she  _ thinks _ his smile grows a little strained. It’s gone too quickly for her to be sure. He’s good. “I tried to calm them down, but it seems the matter can only be solved with advice from someone much older than I. They did want you to come inside because of the storm, but I thought maybe you could also help, ah, resolve the issue. I don’t think they’ll listen to anything I have to say like this.”

 

“Ah… that again. My apologies.” Wit sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. She can already see what must’ve happened: Luke said something insensitive to Tear, who gave him a dry look and a reprimand. Luke got offended over her correction and quickly descended into a defensive argument, unintentionally resembling an Ancient Frankian model of debate by lobbying accusations of poor moral character at Tear, who would have at first tried to let it go but ultimately let herself be provoked to a response when Luke started in on what Wit is now sure is the account of how they ended up transported halfway across the world from Baticul. Luke just can’t let it go, it seems. 

 

“They’re very interesting,” Ion says, rather diplomatically. 

 

Wit’s smile is wry as she holds the door open for him. “That’s one word for it.”

 

-

 

“So…”

 

“So,” Guy says, sitting backwards on Luke’s chair. With only lamplight and dim brown outside to light the room, it’s hard to tell if there’s any real color to the wood at all—the varnish is some sort of indiscriminate dark brown. The bog-standard maple-colored varnish he’s seen in carpentry workshops, if he had to guess. He knows this because he’s been sitting here for the past five minutes, waiting for Luke to finish up with his lesson. 

 

His lesson on fonic artes. 

 

_ Hmm.  _

 

Guy tilts his head. “Had fun on your little adventure?”

 

Luke scowls up at the ceiling and uncrosses his arms from behind his head in order to cross them over his chest. 

 

_ Tantrum incoming,  _ Guy thinks, bracing himself. Luke’s scowl isn’t an uncommon sight around the manor, but there’s an angry light in his eyes and a shadow beneath his frown that belies the stress of the bewildering journey he’s had so far. He stopped feeling sorry about Luke’s idiosyncrasies long ago, but this is a little bit more than the natural consequences of Luke being obnoxious coming back to bite him in the ass.

 

“This whole thing has been terrible! Two weird women with brown hair boss me around from the middle of nowhere to halfway to somewhere. One tried to kill Master Van and the other is quiet and weird and gives you this look when you voice your opinion like you’ve just kicked her dog or something! Nobody gives you a straight explanation! I’m tired and sore and my whole body hurts, except it’s not just my body but my  _ mind, _ and I’m still having those damn headaches…”

 

“Really?” Guy asks, taking care not to appear too sharp, too interested. Van had mentioned once, offhandedly, that there would be side effects from the procedure—what side effects he’d never bothered to mention, and Guy hadn’t ever been able to find an answer, despite wondering at some of the things that happened when he’d been caring for the newly-returned Luke. Like his eyes flashing gold, for one.

 

He still wonders about that, but he kind of hopes he never finds the answer.

 

“Yeah.” Luke rubs his knuckles into the furrow between his brows. He sighs, all the anger and edgy irritation seeming to drain right out of him, leaving behind a very young, very exhausted teenager. “Man… this is lame. I want to get back home already…”

 

“Well, you can’t do much about a sandstorm,” Guy points out with a shrug. “Even with the Planet Storm, you can’t control the weather. Think of it like how the out-of-house maids can’t make it to the manor on typhoon days. They’re always back when the typhoon is over, you know?”

 

“I should be able to go back now. This shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Luke grumbles, but he’s tired enough that there’s only a little bit of heat in it. He’s struggling not to drift off even now.

 

Guy stands. “I should let you sleep, huh? You’ve had a long few weeks.”

 

To his surprise, Luke shakes his head and sits up. “Nah… stay for a while. No stuffy old guy’s here to kick you out.”

 

Huh. Now there’s something that almost sounds like sentiment. It seems like Luke has already started to change, even if he hasn’t noticed. Guy sits back down and sends Luke a quick smile, and even though the kid doesn’t exactly return it, the fainthearted half-smirk definitely counts as an effort considering the mood he’s in.

 

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve seen so far?” Guy suggests, resisting the urge to just lean his head on his arms and take a nap himself. It’s been a long few days, and it’s been a very long time since Guy traveled anywhere. The stress on his body seems determined to manifest now, but it’d be better if he could just keep smiling, both to calm Luke down and to put everyone else at ease. It’s not easy being stuck inside any one place for a couple of days—

 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

 

That’s pretty damn ironic, he thinks. “Stuck inside any one place”—like Luke has always been stuck in the manor.

 

That can’t be helping the situation. 

 

Luke frowns. “Can’t you just read it all in my journal like you always do?”

 

“Let’s just say I’d prefer to hear it, not read it. It’s been a while, you know.” Guy keeps his smile firm. He doesn’t relish going through Luke’s personal thoughts in order to figure out whether he’s going to have a relapse, if because he knows that a relapse is quite literally impossible, but Luke’s nonchalance about it sends a little sliver of guilt straight into his heart. Kids shouldn’t have to be required to record their days for later psychological examination.

 

“Eh… Whatever. It’s a pain, but I’ll do it.”

 

Guy resists the urge to raise his eyebrows at the easy compliance. Even he is never fully safe from Luke’s quick temper. “Well, let’s hear it. Or are you planning to fall asleep in the middle of the day?”

 

“Bah, it wouldn’t change anything. Alright. So it started that day, right before you came to visit me…”

 

-

 

It takes five minutes of staring at the unopened letter before she actually manages to convince herself to break the seal on it.

 

_ This is ridiculous, _ Wit thinks, eyes flicking to the dwindling candlelight and Tear’s inert form on the bed opposite hers.  _ It’s just a letter.  _

 

A very  _ useful _ letter, but a piece of paper nonetheless. It only determines the next step—nothing big, not really…

 

The edges of her mouth curl at that. Nothing terribly important. Right.

 

Still, she finds that she can admit (at least to herself) that the truth of the matter is less that the letter is going to change her course for at least the next six months and more that she’ll have to sit in this inn with a bratty noble, an absent Melodist, a gynophobic man, and the bloody Fon Master of the Order of Lorelei for the next few days without being able to do anything about the information contained in the letter. 

 

She isn’t sure what’s worse for her health: being stuck in a building with the Fon Master or being stuck in a building with Luke fon Fabre. It naturally follows that she would end up stuck in a building with both of them.

 

Tear shifts in her sleep, murmuring incoherent nothings that hover just below hearing level. Wit stares at the letter some more, debating the merits of singing the edges with the candle.

 

_ Just open it,  _ she tells herself, tired of building it up to be a catastrophe comprised of paper and ink. With a swift motion she breaks the seal and draws the letter from the envelope; her eyes seize on the  _ dear Wit _ that the letter starts with as if the phrase, normal as it is, will answer all her questions in one stroke. An amused noise escapes her when she notices her own silliness. She stops, breathes in, and then breathes out— _ one, two, three. Slowly, now. There you go. _

 

“…Huh,” she says out loud as she reads it, glad that Tear is a heavy sleeper when she wants to be.  _ “Huh.” _

 

Aran Adami is a man with connections. She’s known it for as long as she’s worked for the man; for a simple blacksmith, he has a lot of  _ friends  _ who know things that aren’t exactly common knowledge. The Dark Wings—Noir in particular—are prime examples of that. She’d been introduced to the troupe when they’d been by the smithy for a chat one sunny winter morning, York and Urushi relaxing on one side of the room while Noir spoke to Aran in low tones, that unfailing smile on her face. 

 

Wit has never gotten an explanation for that visit or the exact nature of the Dark Wings’ relation to Aran, but she’s got her suspicions. Especially considering what little she knows of Aran’s life before he settled in Baticul. A wandering adventurer, a soldier of fortune; such a romantic, noncommittal spin on such a long life can only hint at secrets important enough to be buried in the past he left behind.

 

Even with that in mind, though, this letter is… a bit much. Aran wants her to return to Baticul as quickly as she can to discuss the deals she’s worked out with the smithy’s customers—but more important than the instructions and the remarks about old friends he wants her to meet is the message he’s spelling out between the lines: the Order has officially declared its Fon Master missing and would very much like him back. The Commandant is searching even now, starting in Malkuth, but a few God-Generals are caught up in some business near St. Binah.

 

_ Be careful, _ Aran had warned her. Like it was _ easy _ to avoid entanglements with Oracle Knights.

 

And Ion just so happens to show up in Chesedonia with Luke’s servant in tow, claiming he has a very important mission to fulfill and that he must go to Baticul. Wit’s eyebrows raise of her own volition.  _ Something is afoot; that much is evident. I’ve known that for long enough that it isn’t surprising. _

 

She frowns, setting the letter down on her lap and brushing her thumb over the scar below her lip.  _ I guess it’s more the confirmation. The Order is definitely experiencing internal strife over something that drove the Fon Master to, well, go rogue. Ion mentioned wanting to talk to the three of us about something in the morning, and apparently Luke’s servant—Guy?—is already involved in some capacity. Ion’s a nice boy, but more than that, he’s looking more and more like a shrewd political leader… one who actually wants to use his power well. So maybe, just maybe… _

 

The thought that begins to take shape in her mind shakes her to her core. She stares at the dimly-lit wall, beyond which Luke, Guy, and Ion sleep, and hears nothing but the beating of her heart and Tear’s soft snores. 

 

_ …I should go to bed, _ she decides, shaking her head.  _ And see what the Fo—what Ion has to say in the morning. I’ll decide based on that. _

 

Even so, she stares at the wall for far too long before sleep finally takes her.

 


	4. 3

Tear wakes up early.

 

Or, at least, she  _ thinks _ she wakes up early. The faint rattling of sand against the windowpanes and the dull, muddy brown of the world outside fail to corroborate what her internal clock is telling her. The light--what little there is of it--is weak and filtered through who knows how many tons of sand. She breathes out and then in, long and slow, like she’s preparing to warm her voice up. But instead of opening her mouth, she sighs through her nose and turns on her side. Wit is still asleep, and the scar that tugs at the bottom of her lip strikes Tear as being at odds with the relaxed set of Wit’s brows and the slow rise and fall of her chest.

 

Tear can’t claim to have met many people, considering how prior to this she’d spent most of her life in Yulia City. Everyone had known her. She was the mayor’s granddaughter, after all. Still, in the days since they made the decision to travel together, Tear’s gotten the impression that Wit is rather strange. Among other things, how many people keep a black, high-collared, long-sleeved shirt on in the desert of all places?

 

_ A soldier has to be in full uniform when they’re on official business, Tear, whether they like it or not. This is the way of the world. Mercenaries will often keep to this rule as well. It’s professionalism—and a way to identify them.  _ Legretta’s voice echoes in her memory, as warm as Legretta had ever known how to be. Which isn’t much, all things considered, but Tear misses her nonetheless. When she thinks about it, she finds herself wishing for her mentor’s presence more than ever. Legretta probably be able to handle this situation with far more grace and efficiency—but then, she wouldn’t have gotten herself into this situation in the first place, because she never would’ve gone against Van.

 

_ Van. _

 

The corners of Tear’s lips turn down without her permission. What is Van thinking? What is he  _ doing? _

 

_ No… what is Van aiming for? _ Tear thinks. She feels far too aware of the cold efficiency she’s letting her thinking fall into.  _ What is he working towards without telling me? I understand that he’s been busy… but what I’ve heard, what I can see with my own eyes… something is going on.  _

 

And when she’d learned about his plan, even the little she pieced together sounded ominous. So she’d tried to kill him. Van. Her _ brother.  _ The Commandant of the Order of Lorelei. Militarily speaking, he is her superior. Legretta had spoken of his plans to have Tear become his second-in-command. The thought had made her flush with joy—with meaning, with  _ purpose,  _ with the idea that her brother  _ needed  _ her, that he wouldn’t leave her behind—but now, it only leaves her cold. He has been vanishing and sending the God-Generals on unofficial missions and gaining more and more control over the internal workings of the Order; he has butted heads with the Grand Maestro more and more openly.

 

He is making himself known. Seen. Heard. And yet nobody seems to know what he wants to do. Even she only has an inkling, and that little inkling, well…

 

_ …That’s duty, isn’t it? Duty. Loyalty.  _ Tear closes her eyes. _ I’m his responsibility… but he’s my brother. We’re family. That makes me responsible for him, too. So… no matter how it makes me feel… I have to… _

 

A knock sounds on the door. Wit jolts awake, head swiveling to the door, but after a moment she relaxes and meets Tear’s gaze.  _ It's Guy,  _ Wit mouths.

 

“Hello?” comes Guy’s voice, sure enough. “Sorry to disturb you…”

 

“We’re awake,” Wit calls, and winces at the way her voice creaks. “Just give us a few minutes, yeah?”

 

“Oh, no, it’s nothing urgent. Just thought you might want to know that breakfast is ready. Luke’s already eating.”

 

“I’d call that urgent,” Wit mutters. Tear stifles a laugh. Wit’s eyes flick towards her with a small smile, and she raises her voice again. “Thanks, Guy. We’ll be down there soon.”

 

“See you,” says Guy, and there is the sound of footsteps fading away from the hallway beyond the door.

 

For a beat, there is silence. Then— “Been up very long?”

 

Tear shrugs. “I can’t tell.”

 

Wit glances at the window and a shadow passes over her face; it’s gone before Tear can get a good read on her, but not fast enough to have gone unnoticed. Wit smiles again at Tear as she sits up and shoves the thin cover sheet to the bottom of the bed. “Well, it looks like it’ll be a while before the storm blows over. Take your time. I’m going to sneak into the kitchen and see if I can get the chef to serve some coffee.”

 

“Thanks,” Tear says, feeling somewhat stilted in the face of Wit’s warm charm. “And… good luck.”

 

It earns her a chuckle as Wit runs a small brush through her hair, then bends down and shuffles through her bag. “I’ll need it. She’s one of those curmudgeonly types.”

 

“Oh, really? I didn’t think she was unfriendly…”

 

“No, but she did sort of  _ harrumph  _ when Guy complimented her cooking last night. Not the easiest to please,” Wit says, finally pulling out a small, leather-bound journal and a larger, plain-covered book from her bag. “You’ve got to strike a careful balance between the truth and your needs, you know? Coffee is worth the struggle.”

 

_ I’m lost, _ Tear thinks with a raised eyebrow. Everything Wit says seems like it has a deeper meaning somewhere. “Sure.”

 

A knowing smile. She has rather a lot of smiles, Tear’s noticed. Another strange thing. She’s never met anyone who uses a smile to say so many different things. “See you later. Don’t forget—Ion wants to talk to everyone later.”

 

The door closes behind her before Tear remembers to respond; she stares instead at the empty room, frowns, and sits up to light the lamp on the table between the two beds.  _ I need to wake up. This sort of fogginess is unacceptable for a soldier… Legretta would remind me of that the moment she learned of this.  _

 

Tear shakes her head, for a moment disappointed in herself, and sets about to beginning the day.

 

-

 

When Wit emerges from the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee, it takes her a moment longer than usual to spot Luke’s bright red hair—he’s half bent over a book, seated at a corner table, with his empty breakfast plates pushed to the side. Her eyebrows raise. Usually, he works on that journal of his at night. She takes a step forward, intent on providing him with some quiet company, but the floorboard beneath her foot protests loudly at her weight. 

 

Luke jumps, slamming his journal shut with a panicked motion. 

 

_ Okay,  _ she thinks as he scowls at her. His face is quickly flushing pink—meaning an outburst is soon to follow, and she knows for a fact that the other unlucky souls who’d gotten stuck in the inn alongside her group are still asleep. 

 

“Good morning, Luke,” she says, mild, moving past the floorboard like it had never made a noise in the first place. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Terrible,” Luke mutters, scowling down at his journal as she sits down across from him.

 

“I can’t say I slept very well, either. Still—that’s what this is for.” Wit raises her mug up from the table and takes a sip, relishing the rich, robust flavor of coffee. She’s missed it out on the road, where rural specialties reign supreme over imported goods.

 

Luke makes a face. “That stuff is disgusting.”

 

“It’s definitely an acquired taste.”

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

It is to this auspicious dismissal that Ion enters the room, lost in thought. Wit gives Luke a polite smile and opens the weathered book she’d brought with her; as she does so, Ion meanders over to their table and smiles at both of them.

 

“Good morning,” he says, taking a seat. “It looks like things outside are a little lighter.”

 

Wit peers out the window next to the table. “You’re right,” she says, raising an eyebrow at the thin film of sand covering the windowpanes. “I can see the other side of the street.”

 

“Perhaps the last of the storm will lift today?” The hopeful lilt to his tone belies the uncertainty in his eyes. 

 

“That would be nice,” she agrees.

 

“Man,” Luke sighs, settling his chin on his hand. “I just want to go home already…”

 

“So you’ve mentioned,” Ion ventures, tilting his head. “Might I ask what you’ve been travelling for?”

 

Luke opens his mouth. Wit kicks his foot under the table. “Well, some things got mixed up, and he and Tear ended up near Tataroo Valley,” she explains cheerfully, ignoring the death glare being shot her way. “It turned out that we were all headed back to Baticul, so I thought that travelling together might make things a little safer for all three of us.”

 

Ion nods, hair bobbing with the motion. “It’s good to have people you can rely on. I know I wouldn’t be able to do as much without the help of my F—my friend… She takes very good care of me when she isn’t attending to her duties.”

 

“So is she here right now?” Luke asks, curious despite himself. 

 

_ He has demonstrated that he doesn’t understand subtlety before, _ Wit reminds herself, resisting the urge to give him a flat look. 

 

Still, Ion smiles and shakes his head. “No, she’s conducting some business in Malkuth at the moment. She’ll meet me in Baticul, whenever I get there.”

 

“And that’s where I come in,” Guy says, stepping out of the kitchen himself. 

 

_ Huh. Must’ve gone in while we were talking, _ Wit thinks. Guy takes a seat next to Luke, sending a brief, apologetic look in Wit’s direction. She shrugs; he smiles, relieved. “Seems like I’m finding myself with a lot of kids to keep track of these days.”

 

“Ah, yes… I apologize,” Ion murmurs, smile faltering.

 

“Hey, I told you not to worry. I agreed to it, right?”

 

“Yes, you did. I’m very grateful.”

 

“Agreed to what?” Luke cuts in.

 

“Guy agreed to escort me to Baticul, since I have some business to conduct there myself. He was certain he’d find you along the way,” Ion says, eyes curving with his smile.

 

“Ah…” Luke frowns. “Well… good.”

 

Wit’s eyebrows shoot up against her wishes.  _ That’s all? _ she thinks, turning her head toward the window in order to avoid the motion being noticed. 

 

“Good morning, everyone,” comes Tear’s voice, shortly followed by Tear herself. A round of greetings follow as she pulls a chair up to the table. “Wit mentioned you had something you wished to talk to us about, Ion?”

 

“Right,” Ion says, quickly looking much more serious. Even Luke can sense the mood shifting, it looks like, as he shifts in his seat and tries to copy Ion’s serious look. It doesn’t quite have the same effect. “The truth is… I have a very important mission to fulfill. I must see the king of Kimlasca… I must speak with him. Normally, this kind of meeting wouldn’t be too difficult to accomplish, but unfortunately… I’ve run into some issues.”

 

Tear draws in a sharp breath. All eyes turn to her. “You don’t mean—the Grand Maestro?”

 

“I couldn’t say,” Ion demurs; Luke looks between the two, frowning.

 

“Why?” he asks, sounding rather annoyed.

 

Guy sighs. “Fact of the matter is, Luke, that what Ion’s doing leaves his tongue tied around people who may not already know. It’s an international affair, for one, but it also involves the Order of Lorelei, and that means he has to be very careful. It’s too important to risk anything going wrong.”

 

Wit frowns to herself. Guy is a nice man, but it would take a deaf man to fail to hear how leading that statement is. With a kid like Luke, it’d be nearly impossible to resist your friend hinting that he knows something you don’t—what is Guy trying to get their intrepid noble involved in?

 

Her eyes widen.  _ Luke is a noble—that’s it, it’s got to be, _ she thinks, struggling to keep her face smooth. Ion might be the Fon Master, but he has to deal with an internal split in his Order—and not just two factions, if she’s understood correctly. There’s his faction, the Grand Maestro’s, and the rapidly swelling contingent of those who are absolutely dedicated to the Commandant of the Knights. Even though the Grand Maestro’s faction is ostensibly supporting Ion’s interest, Maestro Mohs was the one who declared him missing—with Ion mentioning his problems, the possibility that he’s undertaking this journey against the wishes of both the Maestro and the Commandant has just jumped from “probable” to “damn near certain”. All she needs is a verbal confirmation.

 

“…At least, that’s what I’ve gathered,” Guy says, looking at Ion, who nods.

 

Hm. Maybe he isn’t intentionally leading Luke on, but regardless—Ion is building up to something. Guy just translated it into Lukese.

 

“If you’re on a mission,” Wit says, “isn’t it a tad unseemly to go about without your Guardian, or even a few attendees? My apologies, but it is highly unusual.”

 

Ion looks down at that, brows creasing in… worry? “Yes, it is quite unusual. Normally, I’d never leave Daath without my Guardian, and at the beginning, I did have people to help me out. But I’ve had to continue by myself. They’re supposed to come through Chesedonia, so I hope to meet up with them before continuing on…”

 

“If they don’t show, it shouldn’t be too hard for us to take you along,” Guy says. “You’re close now, after all. Chesedonia is just a boat ride away.”

 

“I guess I get why you’re all talking around it, but it’s really damn annoying not knowing what’s going on,” Luke says, crossing his arms.

 

Ion pauses. “It’s a difficult situation,” he acknowledges. “Normally, I’d be happy to discuss international affairs… but it really can’t be helped at the moment, unless…”

 

“Unless we agree to help you,” Tear says, tilting her head.

 

“Yes,” Ion says, giving her an apologetic look.

 

“Ugh… this is so troublesome.” Luke leans back in his chair. “I just want to go home.”

 

A moment of shared silence as the other four glance between each other.

 

“We know,” Wit says blandly, and is rewarded with a suspicious look as Luke tries to figure out whether he should be offended or not.

 

“I have to admit that as an Oracle Knight, I am concerned about this situation,” Tear says, posture rigid and hands in her lap. “But I promised that I’d get Luke back to Baticul… I’m personally responsible, after all.”

 

“Well, for my part, I’m a servant of House Fabre. As much as I’d like to help past escorting you to Baticul, what I do will ultimately depend on what Luke does,” Guy says, glancing at his pouting friend.

 

“I’m interested, myself,” Wit says, tapping a finger on her empty mug. “However, I work for the great blacksmith Aran Adami, and I’ll need to check in with him before I can make any decisions.”

 

“I understand,” Ion says, smiling. “Thank you, regardless.”

 

“What about you, Luke?” Wit asks, and all eyes shift to him.

 

“Well…” Luke fidgets uncomfortably under the weight of everyone else’s eyes, cheeks turning a little pink. “Hey, Ion. You’ll probably need help to get into the nobles’ quarter, right?”

 

Ion looks thoughtful, but Luke barrels on before he can say anything. “Right. So I guess I can help you get into the castle, even though it’s inconvenient for me,” he says in a rush, fingers tapping on his bicep. “If you need the help that badly, I guess.”

 

Another silence. Wit keeps her smile to herself.

 

“What,” Luke nearly spits, face twisting with embarrassment.

 

“It’s nothing. Thank you, Luke. I’m very grateful for your aid… you’re kind,” Ion says, smile warm.

 

“Whatever. You’d better be,” Luke grumbles, face turning a somewhat unflattering shade of pink. 

 

“Well, that’s settled for now,” Wit says, taking her mug and standing. “Ion, I would like to help, but I can’t promise anything just yet. We’re stuck in Chesedonia until the last of the sandstorm blows over, anyways—with it tapering off like this, I’m going to see what I can do about picking up some orders for Aran. If any of you would like to come with after I take this mug back, you’re welcome to it.”

 

“I’ll come,” Guy says, pushing his chair out. “Didn’t realize you worked for the best blacksmith in Baticul. I’m curious to see where he gets his supplies.”

 

“I have nothing better to do,” Luke says, standing as well.

 

“I’ve got some things to think about, and some questions for Ion—if you don’t mind,” Tear says, glancing at him.

 

Ion nods. “By all means, go ahead. Have fun, you three.”

 

Too late, Wit tries to hide her lack of enthusiasm by looking away. Guy smiles as he leans against the wall next to the door.

 

“We’ll have fun,” Wit murmurs, shakes her head, and makes her way into the kitchen.

 

“What?” Luke asks Guy. “What’s with her? She said any of us, didn’t she?”

 

“Just don’t say too much when she’s talking to the suppliers,” Guy says, clapping a hand on Luke’s shoulder.

 

-

 

Dusk falls while Wit is finishing up the last item on the instructions Aran had sent with her, so she drops Luke and Guy off at the inn and finds the nearest decent-looking bar she can, intent on making some progress in her studies. It’s only when she settles in the corner with a drink and private surprise at how well-lit the establishment is that she realizes she’s found the bar on the border between Malkuth and Kimlasca—a place she’s been meaning to find for some time now.

 

What sparks this realization is not so much the playfully-decorated strip delineating the line between the two countries so much as it is the blue uniform of the Malkuthian colonel seated at the bar itself and the stares that uniform is getting from patrons on the opposite side of the bar.

 

Wit finds herself staring as well. Something about the man seems—not quite familiar, per say—but where…?

 

He turns his head. Crimson eyes meet hazel; her heart stops in her chest as recognition strikes her.

 

Colonel Jade Curtiss, prized scientific mind across Auldrant, infamous military commander, father of fomicry… author of the book she’s currently got open on the table.

 

Awkward.

 

As casually as she can, Wit turns her attention back to her book. She tries to ignore the way panic makes her heart pound; she isn’t eleven any more, isn’t an anxious slip of a girl eager to please, and revisiting that is of no interest to her. She settles into an uneasy rhythm after a few pages, managing to take a few notes, but the odd feeling of knowing the Colonel—Jade—is present and examining her refuses to go away.

 

Right when she decides that enough is enough, he stand and starts ambling toward her table, drink in hand. The panic flares anew in her veins; she finds herself stuck on page 131, scanning the words over and over again but failing to comprehend their meaning. The worst thing, she thinks, would be if—

 

“Elisa Antema,” Jade says, sitting across from her with a pleasant smile. “I hardly recognized you.”

 

—if Jade recognized her.

 

In the corner, the shadows shift. Wit fancies she can hear faint laughter emanating from them, as though the universe itself mocks her misfortune. She forces a smile and doesn’t quite manage to avoid its resigned tinge. “Colonel. It’s been a long time.”

 

“Please, do call me Jade. What brings you to Chesedonia? Last I heard, you planned to help your father in Nezacht.”

 

Wit shifts. “Well, I was eleven,” she says diplomatically, finding an odd sort of comfort in the knowledge that Jade hasn’t changed, and therefore wouldn’t have approached her if he didn’t have a reason for it. “But I’ve been on a business trip. I work for Aran Adami in Baticul, you see. Got stuck, though.” She nods at the piles of sand visible through the window.

 

“I see,” Jade says. “You’ve been busy, Elisa.”

 

“That’s life, I suppose. You keep busy from day to day—for food, for purpose, for connection. Though… I go by Wit, now. Wit Danales.” She shrugs.  _ Just a name change. Not important. Don’t ask. _

 

At that his gaze sharpens; he takes a sip of his drink. The strongest thing they have here, it looks like, a dark crimson under the torchlight. Damn. “Is that so?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, casually. Too casually, probably. “Easier to sign off on things for work.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, then. How interesting, though. I assume there’s a great deal of travel involved in your work—Aran Adami does not have his reputation for nothing.” 

 

“There is, yes,” she grants cautiously, not entirely sure where he’s going with the subject. Aran does have a unique reputation, and part of that comes from his insistence on using rare materials to create his more artistic work; she’s found herself all over the world in pursuit of things like ancient decorative helms and metals that harmonize with fonic energy. But is it just curiosity, or is he aiming for something else?

 

It is at this moment that the door on the Malkuth side opens, distracting both of them. Wit tries not to breathe a sigh of relief when it’s Guy who enters, glancing around the room. She starts to wave him over, but his eyes fall on Jade and light up in recognition; he strides over without needing to be asked.

 

“Jade,” Guy says, standing next to the table with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you made it in one piece.”

 

“Oh, it wasn’t too much trouble,” Jade says with a grin that’s only slightly evil. Wit looks between the two, mentally trying to account for two separate halves of her life suddenly and forcefully welding themselves together after many long years of disassociation. It’s… bizarre, she decides, watching them banter a bit.

 

But Guy hasn’t missed her presence. “Hey, Wit. Didn’t know that you two knew each other.”

 

“Well, I met him once when I was young,” she says, trying to keep her smile up. “We haven’t really kept in touch, but hey, we’re both here.”

 

“And I assume you two know each other,” Jade says. It isn’t a question, and if she’s reading him right, he’s… pleased about something? Hm. It bears further consideration; he has one hell of a poker face.

 

Guy nods. “She’s been taking care of my friend Luke. She’ll be with us at least until we reach Baticul.”

 

“How interesting,” Jade murmurs, and Wit tries not to feel the cold shiver of doom that runs down her spine when he gives her a fleeting speculative look.

 

She needs a distraction. “So, you’re in on the plan?”

 

“I might be,” Jade says with a twist of the lips that could be something like a smirk. His voice is mostly neutral, but she’s old enough now to hear the hint of mischief. “But then again, I might not be. It would depend on what you’re talking about.”

 

Wit gives him a flat look. She is  _ not _ eleven any more. Instead, she raises an eyebrow at Guy.

 

“From what I understand, he is,” Guy says with a touch of nervousness and a sheepish smile.

 

“Now that’s not any fun,” Jade says as he stands. “But you’re not wrong—I do need to rendezvous with our mutual companion, if he’s here.”

 

Wit glances at him, consciously aware of the open book on the table. “I’ve got some studying to finish up, so I’ll be behind both of you if you’re headed back to the inn.”

 

“That’s fine,” Guy says. “Just came to check up on you. It’s getting pretty late, after all.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about me. Go on, I’ll meet you there—nice to see you again, Colonel,” she adds, waving them off. She ignores the feeling of her smile wilting at the edges. Guy’s stride is relaxed, while Jade’s is the perfect picture of military precision—hands clasped behind back, steps measured, pace even.  _ Quite the contrast, _ she thinks, turning back to her notes. Her smile falls.

 

It is getting late, true. She hadn’t even thought of it—and if she’s going to be travelling with other people, she’ll have to remind herself to be aware of that. She has nothing to fear from the night or its residents, no, but others don’t know that. And it has to stay that way. For her sake, yes, but also for everyone else’s.

 

She sighs, massaging her temples.  _ This is turning into far more than I bargained for. _

 

Still, she had said that it would be interesting, and she’s been proven astoundingly correct. First it was a lost Oracle Knight accompanying a clueless noble, then the Knight was the Commandant’s sister and the noble was a Fabre, and from there things have only gotten more and more complicated.

 

The shadows in the corner flicker in time with the gentle swaying of lamplight from the window. Wit forces herself to read and comprehend, but a small corner of her mind is still spinning with implications and possibilities that refuse to diminish, despited her dogged efforts.

 

Auldrant turns; the moon casts down the sun in order to rule from its place in the heavens. She knows that a Scorer would call the continual turning of the world on its axis a matter of fate, and a layman would not be terribly likely to think anything else of it, if they thought of it at all. But again the course of her life follows the laws of irony: her reading has presented her with the fact that there was life before the Score as well.

 

Jade, in this book, does not address this beyond the statement that prior to the Score, prior to Yulia, the Dawn Age had regenerative technology that saved lives. He is, after all, primarily concerned with examining the feasibility of replication technology and its application in the modern world. He’d written it years before he’d instituted the ban on fomicry of living creatures, and it’s fascinating to see what he was up to when she was a teenager, but the implications behind that simple statement— _ ”Before Yulia, in the Dawn Age, lives were saved through superior regenerative technologies” _ —are breathtaking.

 

For someone like her, those words represent hope. Hope for a new world.

 

Her lips thin. She will never get anywhere by merely dreaming of the future; if she wants change, she will have to create it with her own two hands.

 

If creating that future means aiding the Fon Master, well, she’ll sacrifice comfort and safety. There are some things in life that are too important to simply pass up; an opportunity like the one before her, she knows, is one of them.

 

Now she just has to hope that Jade won’t be too interested in her life past Nezacht. He’s a busy, unsentimental military man, even if he had been her brother’s commander and a guest in their home once. It shouldn’t be too hard to avoid him… right?

 

Right. For what feels like the millionth time that evening, Wit lets out a long sigh and forces a calm she is far from feeling.


	5. Chapter 5

As the morning sun turns over to the afternoon and the dry desert heat begins to make Jade feel as if his hair is burning, he finds Wit at the docks, gathering information. Initiative. Already he feels heartened; they may have a complete liability in the form of one clueless, obnoxious noble on their hands, but he’s assessed what he’s got to work with, and none of the others are anywhere near matching Luke fon Fabre in function or form—which is to say that they are assets on this mission, civilian or no, and considering the way this thing has gone thus far, Jade will take what he can get.

 

It says something, he thinks, that a ragtag bunch of misfits are the best chance of getting to Baticul that the Fon Master has had yet. What exactly that “something” is he couldn’t possibly say; it is not for him to hypothesize about the more arcane, philosophical workings of the universe, if because his primary focus is on that which can be known.

 

“’Fraid the ship won’t be in working order for a few more days yet,” the old man with wispy hair and a flyaway beard is saying, putting the crate he was about to lift back down and looking Wit in the eye. “Sand’s gotten into every crevice, and the boys say enough of it has gotten into the engines that they’ll need to inspect it all thoroughly before gettin’ on the move again. Safety ‘n all that.”

 

A short distance away, Jade watches as Wit unconsciously slips into the same posture as the sailor—a lopsided slouch that seems to come naturally. “Shame,” she says. “I s’pose it’s the way of things, but I’d hoped for something different.”

 

The old man chuckles, shaking his head. “Hope, eh? A man’s got no time for that ‘less he makes it himself. And that’s what we’re doin’ here, puttin’ the rest of the ships back in workin’ order. Be seein’ ya around, I expect. Heave ho!”

 

With that cheerful rallying cry, the man hefts the crate up onto his hip and strides in the direction of a gaggle of young sailors looking uncertainly at the sand-encrusted riggings. Wit watches him go, gaze thoughtful, but when the man starts giving the younger men a tongue-lashing she rolls her eyes and makes her way over to Jade. With a somewhat self-conscious smile that pulls at the scar below her lip, she adjusts the high collar of her jacket. Interesting that she appears unbothered by the desert heat, despite wearing a long-sleeved sweater and a jacket—though, Jade supposes, it does make sense if she works for a blacksmith. “Well, there you have it, Colonel. Sorry to make you wait. What brings you here?”

 

“You,” he says, setting an easy pace toward the stairs up to the city. As they walk, he notices that her eyes constantly flicker from place to place. Not nerves—intentional awareness. That will be useful. “It appears that Ion has something he’d like the whole group to hear.”

 

What it is he doesn’t know for sure, though he can guess. Ion had been listening rather intently as the innkeeper went on about the weather and the Planet Storm, and the only thing in the whole spiel that hadn’t been irrelevant drivel had been at a point where the old woman came back from dealing with a customer and mentioned that they’d mentioned a rumor about the Zao Ruins out in the desert. Apparently, during the sandstorm there’d been a fonic disturbance in the ruins; it’d caused an earthquake and caused some of the surrounding portions of the desert to cave in.

 

Apparently. The old biddy had also said that there’d been an entire caravan there at the time and they’d been swallowed up by ten metric tons of sand. Jade is very nearly certain that she had been exaggerating for the “benefit” of her audience, which had included Ion, Luke, and a gaggle of small children, but further investigation had proven that there was at least a kernel of truth in what she’d been saying. Ion, he knows, has been troubled by the weather and its oddities; most likely, he’ll ask to investigate. With the ships out of order, they might as well.

 

Anise hasn’t shown yet, after all, and if her prolonged absence is due in part to her taking the time to send Kain back to Grand Chokmah as Jade suspects she has, it will be a few more days yet. 

 

Wit gives him a sidelong look that returns his attention to the present. “Me, huh? I feel special. But that works out pretty well, since I’m going to have to be the one to break the news about the ships to Luke.”

 

Jade smiles. It’s a  _ nice _ smile. “You have my sympathies.”

 

“He’s not that bad,” she ventures. He regards her with a single raised eyebrow. She makes a valiant effort, but in the end, she deflates. “…Yeah, he is. I’ve heard some crazy stories about nobles, but he just takes the cake.”

 

“If you’ll indulge my curiosity… how is it that you came to accompany such an august personage, Elisa?” he asks. At the sound of her name she jumps and gives him a wide-eyed look; he ignores it and waits, though he does file away the reaction for further examination later. Even if she had actually been trying the other night when she’d said her name change was merely for professional purposes, there’s obviously something more to it—though it isn’t his business to pry.

 

No matter how poorly a job she’s doing of concealing whatever she has to hide.

 

Wit runs a hand through her hair and laughs, the sound of it only slightly nervous. “Funny story, actually. I was camped in Tataroo Valley, left my spot to help a man whose carriage had broken down, and came back to Luke eating my stew.”

 

“My, my. That’s quite the first impression." Admittedly, her experience really isn’t any better than the introduction he’d gotten to Luke— _ who the hell are you,  _ indeed—but a noble being  _ that  _ terrible with social skills? Much like everything else about the boy, those poor interpersonal skills are highly unusual for his background. Added together, well, it’s very suspicious indeed. Suspiciously annoying.

 

She snorts. “I know, right? I found out that the two of them were headed to Baticul. Not sure what they were doing in Tataroo, but I wasn’t sure they could find their way out of a paper bag, carrying on like they were. I felt bad, so I offered to help them out.” With a shrug, she sidesteps a man carrying lumber on his shoulder. “By the time we got here on the forty-fourth, Guy and Ion were already at the inn, and that was that.”

 

“It took three weeks to get to Chesedonia from Tataroo Valley?” Jade raises his eyebrows at that. For civilians capable of combat, it should’ve only taken a few days.

 

Wit gives him a look. Head tilted, eyes disdainful and half-lidded, eyebrows slightly pinched—it all goes together to create one of the most profound looks of derision Jade has ever encountered, which is quite impressive. “Luke insisted on fighting every single monster he saw, at least half of the ones he didn’t, and got us lost in a forest by running off and tripping into a river.”

 

“Ah. Naturally.”  

 

“We also had to stop in a village for a few days so that Tear could instruct him on the use of fonic fields,” she says, briefly leaning her weight against the sandstone wall of a house to avoid a dusty child dashing out of the street that leads to the marketplace. She pauses, looks at him for a long, inestimable moment, then continues. “…It was very strange.”

 

Jade also pauses, unsure of what, exactly, she’s trying to say. Obviously she wants him to pick up on something, but the unsaid is not his forte. “Was it, now?”

 

“I don’t know, I’ve never met anyone else whose fon slots felt entirely unused,” Wit says lightly as they move past the market streets and drift into the less-crowded residential areas. They’re headed toward a shortcut back to the inn, he knows; he’d seen her leave through the alley next to it this morning. “Bit funny, that’s all. He’s a seventh fonist, y’know? Usually, the Order snaps them up quick.”

 

“Well, he is a noble. Perhaps Duke Fabre didn’t want to send his son off for training. After all, there was that kidnapping attempt Malkuth was blamed for a few years back.” Though he presents her with an argument, he isn’t terribly surprised to find that her assessment of Luke’s situation is sounding very similar to his. It doesn’t take much for the cracks to start showing, apparently. 

 

She shakes her head. “See, I’d thought that might be the case, but the Princess is a trained seventh fonist; I’ve seen her heal people on the streets in Baticul. He’s ostensibly her fiance. Surely they’d receive the same treatment? The danger presented by an untrained seventh fonist is very well-known. And as much as I hate to say it, Luke’s got raw fonic power in spades—but absolutely no finesse. It makes me wonder.”

 

“Should a Kimlascan citizen really be informing a Malkuthian colonel of this?” Jade wonders, stepping over a sandy pile of wrapped-up rugs.

 

“Ah, I’m still Malkuthian. Passport and all,” Wit says, diffident. “I’ve just got a work visa.”

 

The plot thickens. He shakes his head, smile wry. “My, my. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Elisa?”

 

“Says Colonel Jade Curtiss, foremost scientific genius of the modern age,” Wit tosses back, living up to her assumed name—though he isn’t sure he likes the way she says his name, like he’s especially famous outside of Malkuth.  _ Infamous, _ maybe. He’s certainly butted heads with more prominent researchers in both Sheridan and Belkend enough times, and that’s ignoring the exploits that earned him the name “Necromancer”. 

 

Still, there’s no reason for her to know that, and she seems to be very aware of their brief past connection. Perhaps she’s uncomfortable with the idea of treating him as a peer rather than an untouchable statue; she had certainly been precociously careful in her treatment of him when she was eleven. So he lets that go without comment and leads the way through the alley. They pause on the inn porch, glance at each other— _ here goes, _ her smile and raised brow says—and he opens the door with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

 

-

 

“Damn, it’s hot. And sandy. Man, I hate sand… Wish we were going to the oasis…”

 

Silence. 

 

Luke looks back at the group when he feels the weight of their stares on his back. “What? What is it?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” Wit says, and the unappreciative look he sends her tells her that her expression is a tad too open to lend any sort of pleasant neutrality to her words. There are only so many times one can tolerate minute variations on  _ sand is so sandy _ , especially when those variations are accompanied by things like Luke flipping his hair and whipping half of them in the face with it; just because she and Tear had managed to teach him that travel was rough in the preceding weeks unfortunately does not also mean that he learned not to whine about it.

 

When even Ion’s got a strained air about him, it means you’ve gone too far. Wit smiles back at Luke and tells herself she only takes a little bit of pleasure in the way his scowl intensifies. 

 

The desert is hot. Water is wet. They were never going to go anywhere near the oasis, despite what Luke seems to have believed; if he’s irritated about the sand in his boots and every seam of his shirt rubbing against grimy skin heated by the sun, well, everyone else is too. She breathes in and tries not to let the way the skin of her back is chafing against her customary long-sleeved shirt visibly bother her; it always aches at times like these, and she’ll be damned if she goes anywhere in the vicinity of behaving like Luke.

 

“It’s just… we know,” Guy says, diplomatic. He adjusts the collar of his shirt and shakes it with a brief frown. “Most people don’t appreciate being reminded of it at every turn.”

 

“Yes, who was it that started an argument with me every time I checked our location because, and I quote,  _ ‘it’s so damn annoying, stop it already’ _ ?” Tear asks dryly.

 

Luke’s cheeks, already flushed pink from the heat, turn red. “Shut up!”

 

“My, my. That’s not a very polite way to speak to a lady, Luke,” Jade says, a distinctly taunting note in his voice. “What do they teach nobles in etiquette classes these days, I wonder…”

 

“I didn’t take any stupid etiquette classes!” Luke yells, walking faster.

 

“Explains a lot,” Wit mutters, exchanging a glance with Jade. Guy just sighs and pulls one of the shirts meant to protect them from the desert heat out of his pack, shuffling into it as he goes to catch up with Luke.

 

Ion coughs. Tear falls back some, putting a hand on his shoulder, and he gives her a brief smile. “My apologies for interrupting, but… I’ve been seeing animal tracks on the surrounding dunes for the past ten minutes or so.”

 

“Indeed,” Jade agrees, ever the observant one. “There are also human tracks. I do believe we’ll be running into some sooner or later—”

 

Around the next dune, Luke screeches in surprise; Guy yells something Wit doesn’t quite catch, sounding exasperated, and the clang of metal against metal grates against her ears. The breeze that carried the sounds to them dies down, and the noise grows fainter, but there’s no mistaking the beginning of a battle.

 

“—Or now,” Jade finishes, dry. Tear gives him a suspicious look. He smiles. 

 

_ That’s not innocent at all,  _ Wit thinks, but whatever his reasons, Jade wouldn’t have let any sort of ambush sneak up on them if he didn’t think it could be handled. She rolls her eyes at him and breaks into a jog to catch up to the action. 

 

-

 

“Colonel…” Tear starts.

 

He adjusts his glasses. “Yes?”

 

“Did you let them sneak up on us on purpose?” she asks, arms crossed.

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with a somewhat reproving look. “Come now, we’ll miss the battle. And wouldn’t that be a shame?”

 

He makes his way across the sands sedately, hands in his pockets. Tear shakes her head. “Incorrigible.”

 

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Ion says. “He’s very reliable, you know. I trust him with my life.”

 

“If he left you with me, I suppose he’s trusting me to take care of you,” Tear says. “I think I’ll sit this one out; they’re probably going to need healing afterward.”

 

A loud boom sounds. Nothing comes for a short moment after that--then Wit swears loudly and vociferously. A responding cackle, feminine and unfamiliar, is cut off by an alarmed shriek as first fonons swirl visibly around the site of the battle and strike downward with what sounds like a faint roaring. 

 

“Oh my,” Ion murmurs, eyes trailing after the residue left by the fonons. Though it would have been hard to notice if he hadn’t been looking for it, patches of darkness remain in the air above.

 

Tear follows Ion's line of sight and frowns. “…What does that mean?”

 

“I think that if neither of us know, perhaps it’s best that we don’t,” Ion says, the robes of his office trailing against the sand as he walks. His words are punctuated by another explosion. “Shall we go see the damages?”

 

“Let’s wait for a minute, Fon Master. It sounded like bandits—if they’re not all killed and they catch sight of you, it could put the mission in jeopardy. Plus, you need to keep yourself hydrated.” Tear hands him her canteen. Ion opens his mouth to protest, but she frowns at him. He takes the canteen and drinks without comment.

 

When Tear doesn’t scold him further, Ion is distinctly reminded of Anise’s missing presence. She would fuss him into oblivion if given half a chance, and he finds that he misses the way she hovers and presses and pries, annoying as others seem to find it. He clasps his hand to his chest and bows his head.  _ I pray for her safety,  _ he thinks, a small smile finding its way to his face when he pictures her face scrunched up into a scowl at the thought of needing divine protection.  _ And that we’ll be reunited soon. _

 

The sound of the battle dies down. He hands the canteen back to her. “Thank you, Tear.”

 

“Of course, Fon Master…” She catches herself, gives him an apologetic look. “I mean—Ion. My apologies.”

 

“Please, don’t worry about it.”

 

-

 

Tear and Ion round the bend nearly as soon as the last bandit falls. Luke is sitting down with his hands in his head, eyes vacant, while Guy crouches beside him with a frown. Jade and Wit are busily disposing of the bodies of the bandits they’d just fought; Jade’s gaze rests thoughtfully on Wit, who ignores him and waves at Tear and Ion.

 

“It was a good idea to wait,” Wit says, stepping away from the nearest pile of sand. “They took themselves out when they lost the upper hand. It was… messy.”

 

“I assume that’s why Luke is sitting over there?” Tear asks, frowning.

 

Wit nods, brows pulled together. “Got a front-row view.”

 

“He’ll have to adjust,” Jade says. “The Oracle Knights will likely have increased the intensity of their operations in Chesedonia by the time we return. There’s no guarantee that we’ll be able to avoid casualties.”

 

“But I can’t be that cold!” Luke bursts out, standing and facing all of them with wide eyes. “I… they… they were people, they were human lives!”

 

“Nobody’s saying that they weren’t, Luke,” Wit says after an excruciating moment of awkward silence. This is a thread of conversation that has lain dormant for a week or so, and she wishes things were different. Irritating, obnoxious, unbelievably selfish—Luke is all of these things, yes, but when he lets his guard down enough to show it, like now, his heart is soft. Too soft for the world they live in. That sort of innocence doesn’t have a place in reality, no matter how the selfishness that accompanies it manifests.

 

_ But could it?  _ a small part of her mind asks.  _ How many times have people had to carve out homes for themselves in a reality that seems to contradict their existence? How many times have _ you _ had to? _

 

There’s no time to think about it. The present demands her attention, and so she steps away from the bodies and fixes her eyes on Luke’s horrified face.

 

Tear nods. She glances at the bodies—a teenage boy, a man, and a woman, all with hair a soft shade of purple, all thankfully face-down—and she looks away. “They were people. But as true as that is, they attacked you. They wanted to take your life away. There was no other way to get through. Would you have stood there and let them take that away from you?”

 

“But you didn’t—!” Luke swallows, passing his hand over his eyes. He looks away, over the sloping sands. “I… I can’t accept that.”

 

“You have the choice not to fight, Luke, like we’ve said before. We can protect you, too, if it bothers you that much,” Wit says. 

 

Luke looks down. “I… I can’t be a burden, either.”

 

“Well, either way, we’re wasting time,” Jade says, hands resting behind his back. He looks out over the dunes at the horizon, where a dim, dark shape is visible. “I’d like to get as close to the ruins as we can today. Shall we have you move to the middle with Ion?”

 

“…No.” He shakes his head and his hair bounces with the motion. “I can fight. And I will fight. It’s just…”

 

“It’s not wrong to care, Luke,” Wit says, thinks of a time when she was younger, and closes her eyes. “In fact, it’s very honorable of you. But it might do you well to remember that at least two of us are soldiers, and I myself was a mercenary for a few years. We have different responsibilities placed upon us… responsibilities we may not always like, but we’re bound to them nonetheless. There is a divide between the heart and the mind that is necessary for us to do what we do every day.”

 

Luke’s eyes remain fixed on his feet. He makes no response.

 

“Let’s get a move on. We can’t exactly stay here,” Jade says, no trace of levity left on his face. The last of the graves, sandy and shallow, are dug without comment by Guy and Wit; soon enough the bandits have been buried, and they set out across the sands with Ion alone in the middle of their formation. Silence reigns until Tear notices a loose button on the side of Luke’s jacket, and normalcy slowly returns as Luke squawks and picks a fight with her, but his pallor remains and does not quite leave. Another piece of innocence tarnished forever.

 

Wit hums a short strain of a strong, earthy, ancient song that dances on the edge of hearing and does not mind when Ion joins in with the near-intangible melody of the wind that accompanies it. Together the song sounds far-away and desolate, and it quiets the others, who listen in with varying degrees of confusion and interest.

 

It fits the mood. The music always does; fonons vibrate in harmony with one another in every space of every place, resonating, whispering, telling stories about the essence of it—but usually, the songs can’t be heard unless you listen for them. The desert is hot and grimy and endless, and the wind that whips across it is hotter and harsher, but it can be called quiet if one has the patience to listen. 

 

It took her a long time to learn how to listen.

 

Up ahead, Luke is eyeing the dark shape of the ruins in the distance with trepidation. It makes her smile.

 

That part of Luke’s innocence may be gone forever, buried beneath the sand with three bandit siblings, but he is young enough to be wary of the dark. What an interesting conundrum their fon Fabre is.

 

-

 

“Well, Colonel, what do you think?” Ion asks, eyeing the complicated sigil emblazoned on the ground in the center of the entrance chamber. Beyond him the door to the Sephiroth pulses with fonic energy, glowing gently; it provides a surprising amount of light for being what it is, however eerie a shade it casts over the ruins surrounding it. “I am nearly certain that this is Daathic in origin, but I’ve never seen these specific verses combined like this.”

 

Jade’s gaze is intent. “I can’t claim to know the intricacies of Daathic artes, Fon Master, but judging by the meaning it does look like it was intended to either shake the seal to the Sephiroth or amass large quantities of the second fonon. Perhaps both.”

 

Unnoticed in her spot between two crumbling pillars, Wit gives the pair a rather dry look.  _ Can’t claim to know the intricacies of Daathic artes? You probably figured it out when you first saw it, Colonel. _

 

“Something about this place makes me feel uneasy,” Guy says to Luke. They both sit against the only remaining wall, watching Ion and Jade with bored looks.

 

Luke lets his head fall and hit his knee with a thunk. It echoes. “No kidding.”

 

“Well, these are the ruins of an underground city,” Tear says, cautiously leaned up against the next section of bricks that aren’t a crumbling wreck. Her staff is in her hand, ready for action at any moment. Wise girl.

 

Wit glances at the sigil, then the sealed door; she looks away. Ruined indeed. Exactly the sort of mysterious that leaves you with more questions than answers and a vague sense of unease in the air, like some trace still remains of the madness that encompassed the city on the day it fell. She isn’t sure she likes that. “Well. If we’re talking ‘uneasy’, that sigil screams ‘trap’ to me.”

 

“It’s just a big symbol on the ground. What’s so iffy about that?” Luke asks, frowning as he stretches his arms.

 

“Think about it. Daathic fonic artes are some of the most powerful artes in existence—period. What is one doing just sitting on the ground like that if Ion is supposed to be the only one capable of placing them by virtue of being the Fon Master? He couldn’t have done it. He’s been with us the entire time. So who put them there, how, and why?” By the time she is finished, everyone in the room is looking at her—even Jade and Ion. She leans back against the wall, crosses her arms, and tries not to feel hunted under the weight of their combined gazes.

 

_ Well, damn, _ she thinks, absurdly amused by her own discomfort. _ Now you’ve done it, eh, Wit? _

 

“Astute,” Jade says, and she isn’t quite sure whether it’s a compliment or not—but the look in his eyes could be construed as approving, so she decides to run with that. “And curious. I must admit to wondering who—or what—put this here, myself. As it stands, I think we can be relatively certain that this sigil drew enough second fonons to itself to cause a significant disturbance in the fonic balance of this area… however, whether that was the cause of the sandstorm or not would require further examination of the area, as I would expect it to take more power to upset the Planet Storm. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to examine it.”

 

Ion nods, though his brows are furrowed with worry. “The sigil looks like it can’t be activated again, so I think if we leave it alone, it should be fine. Though I might send a team out here when I have the time… the existence of this sigil at all concerns me greatly.”

 

“As well it should,” comes a voice, and the group collectively tenses. “After all, now that you’ve seen this, I’m afraid I’m going to have to bury you here.”

 

From a towering, ruined spire that disappears into the endless cavern ceiling, what looks like a blur of green leaps down and lands in the middle of the glyph. A boy in an impressive raven-shaped mask stands from his crouch; the sigil lights up with him as Tear pulls Ion behind herself and Jade leaps back. Luke and Guy are already standing in front of the rest of them, tense and ready for a fight.

 

But Wit recognizes that mask, and her hand tightens on her battle hammer.  _ Sorry, Aran. _

 

“Sync the Tempest,” she murmurs, drawing another round of glances from her companions. “God-General of the Oracle Knights.”

 

“Some nobody has heard of me? Guess I need to inform someone that his officers are falling down on the job,” Sync comments, arms crossed. “Whatever. I’ll do that after I crush you lot.”

 

“Please, wait. How do you know Daathic fonic artes?” Ion says, leaning out from behind Tear. She pushes him back with a frown, and he stays, but looks hopefully at Sync through the gap between Tear’s torso and her arm. 

 

Sync tilts his head, a curiously nasty smirk finding its way onto his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Fon Master? I’m not about to talk this out. What use have I got for diplomacy? Useless, that’s what it is. So fight for your lives… if you can.”

 

He takes the initiative in a breathtaking burst of speed, forcing Wit, Luke, and Guy to scatter as he lands in the middle of them with a slash. 

 

“Luke, Guy,” Jade barks, drawing fifth fonons in a circle around him. “Offense! Wit, mid-range!”

 

With cries of acknowledgment, the two dart for Sync—who, in turn, weaves through both of them, jumps back with a sneer, and begins casting his own arte. 

 

“Hold back, Tear!” Wit gestures for her to stay with Ion and waits until Jade’s arte goes off, throwing Sync into the air with the force of the fiery explosion, to barrel in and hit the God-General with an upswing. 

 

Sync gasps in pain (she thinks she sees Guy wince in sympathy), but he lands on the ground feet-first some feet away and sends all his gathered fonons into the sigil on the ground with an angry hiss. He looks up. Wit gets the distinct impression he’s glaring at her. “You’ll pay for that!”

 

“Why are you even doing this? What is it going to—” Wit starts to ask, distracted, but suddenly he is there and swiping at her with those wicked-looking half-moon blades. She jumps back in the nick of time, still shocked at his speed. Luke covers her retreat with distinct unease. She grits her teeth when she feels Sync gathering fonons—all that had done was buy him time, it seems. Beneath their feet, archaic verses inscribe themselves under the extant ones; even the hit Guy scores on Sync doesn’t seem to deter him.

 

“Be careful, everyone! He’s modifying the arte!” Ion calls out as Tear starts chanting and Jade hurls his spear at Sync’s chest, forcing the boy to move or risk impalement. 

 

“Ugh, your voice is so annoying! Just shut up already!” Sync yells, using the sigil to pull a massive amount of second fonons to him. “Stone Dragon Ascent!”

 

Wit mutters something unflattering under her breath and hits the ground at a roll that leaves her somewhere near Jade; she stands just in time to feel her left shoulder explode in pain as a falling stalactite grazes it, and she falls to her knees with a pained gasp.  _ What the hell,  _ she thinks.  _ What’s in that arte— _

 

“Up, Wit,” Jade says, voice commanding, and she does not think about rising. He catches her gaze as she gets to her feet. “Assist, then stick to cover. I’m far from spent, but I will require space.”

 

“Got it.” She hefts her hammer and draws first fonons to it as surreptitiously as she can; if she can gather enough, she’ll be able to add some extra swing into a hit—maybe even swing the battle overtly in their favor. The weight of the hammer and the pain in her shoulder drags her down as she shoots for Sync’s back, dancing between the ominously-glowing lines of the sigil as quickly as she can. Ignoring the pain pays off: she misses the swing, but snares Sync’s feet in a thick collection of first fonons. Tear shouts something and Guy responds, but her focus is keen as she refines and follows, then—locks on.

 

Just what she needed. “Great shadows of the night, take my enemies in your grasp and smother them in everlasting silence. May their light be subsumed by the darkness—Torpor!”

 

“What… what the hell,” Sync manages, swaying in place; his hesitation makes room for the combined impact of a water arte from Jade and a slash from Luke’s sword to hit him and force him to his knees. Luke lowers his sword in front of him, eyes hazy with exhaustion and face pale. Something’s wrong with him, but there’s no time for Wit to ask. Sync tips his head down briefly, then straightens it again with a snarl. “Damn it! I shouldn’t have expected any less from Jade Curtiss of all people. Fine. I’ll take you seriously… let’s see you handle an Akashic Torment!”

 

Luke never had a chance. Sync’s hands, already on the ground, curl into fists. The ground lights up as a Daathic glyph appears on top of the sigil and Ion shouts in alarm—

 

Pain explodes behind Wit’s eyes as she finds herself knocked into the air by a wave of energy; sensation disappears, except for the distant sound of screaming. _ That’s us,  _ a part of her recognizes dimly.  _ Luke and me. Guy too? And Tear? _

 

_ Am I going to die? I can’t. I can’t die here, like this, after everything—  _

 

She hits the ground. Or perhaps the ceiling. She’s really not sure which way is up, and if she had the time she’d lie there gasping, but some base instinct in her reacts to the vibration of feet on the ground and she rolls away just in time to avoid a half-moon blade slicing through her neck. It’s just like before, with her heart in her mouth and blinding pain and terror in her veins, and she shakes her head rapidly in an attempt to clear her vision and get back to the fight. It doesn’t work, but then, all the sounds of battle have ceased. She wonders why until Sync takes one step back, and then another.

 

“What  _ are _ you?” he breathes, catching her attention, and that’s when she realizes that it’s not her  _ vision _ that’s the problem.

 

First fonons swirl around her, thick enough to be visible to the naked eye. They lap at her heels and dance on her hair, curl about her shoulders like an old friend, and it shouldn’t feel as much like home as it does. 

 

Wit closes her eyes and clenches her shaking fingers into fists and swallows her beating heart back down to where it is supposed to be. She’d gone so long without another incident, too, and now it’s all unraveled when she’d just gotten used to the idea of needing to be more secretive about the whole thing. “Aw, hell. Not again.”

 

Her voice reverberates, and it’s not the cavern’s acoustics that does it.

 

“This has happened  _ before—” _ comes Jade’s voice, sharp and questioning, but Sync’s mouth thins into a frown, then curls into a wicked grin.

 

“O-ho,” Sync says. Leans forward a little, even. “I do believe the Order will find this very interesting indeed.”

 

_ No,  _ Wit thinks, in that moment viscerally aware of the results of that possibility—of being studied, then hunted and alone, known to all as something that should not exist. All her plans and projections and futures shatter in an instant of panic.  _ That can’t happen, it can’t, I can’t let that happen— _

 

Her chain of thought is quite suddenly cut short by the sudden lurching of the fonons surrounding her toward Sync. He tries to leap back, but he moves all wrong; he hisses, fumbles, and falls on his leg with a wet, painful-sounding wrenching noise. In an instant he is encompassed by writhing darkness, and no matter how Wit tries to draw the fonic energy back to herself and put it in some semblance of control, the fonons run wild over and into him, flooding his fon slots with their sheer density. He doesn’t scream, but his face twists horribly below the mask.  

 

“Damn it,” she hisses, tears coming to her eyes as the fonons refuse to be reined back in. Her control slips with her frustration, leaving her even further behind than she’d been before trying to pull them back. “Damn it!”

 

A gloved hand lands on her shoulder and blue fills the corner of her vision. Jade. Not entirely a comfort. That’s fine. His hand isn’t entirely intended to comfort. “Elisa. Calm down.”

 

“I can’t  _ control it—” _

 

“I can see that. Be glad that it’s wreaking havoc on our enemy and not on you.” There are so many questions in his eyes that she has to look away, swallowing, until she’s drawn in several deep breaths. It doesn’t really help anything—if anything, it makes it worse, seeing everyone else unconscious already—but it’s the thought that counts, brings the memory to mind that lets her clamp down and ignore the way her hands are shaking.

 

“Sync isn’t going to wake up for a very long time, if ever,” she says, ignoring the look Jade gives her at her flat tone. “That right there is raw fonic energy responding to me. As far as I’ve been able to determine, anyways.”

 

“…As I was asking, this has happened before?”

 

“Once. Wasn’t pleasant.”

 

Jade’s expression flickers too fast for her to parse. A part of her thinks it might be frustration, but she pushes that part away and focuses on the now. He only raises an eyebrow. “I will require more information than that, Elisa.”

 

“Can we do this later?” she asks, looking down as the first fonons dissipate into the shadows, their purpose finished, and leave the area lighter and Sync motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest. “I was afraid of this. And we should probably get everyone else on their feet so Tear can heal us all up.”

 

“I suppose that would be prudent,” he grants, clearly unenthused by the idea of leaving answers for later, but makes for the item bag next to Ion’s feet regardless. He pauses and glances over his shoulder. His eyes pierce through all the shadows in hers, and in the face of that, the idea of trying to hide anything from him seems a ridiculous dream. She hadn’t really believed her own talk about it in the first place, though it’d been a nice thought. A nice idea. “But we will talk.”

 

She smiles, because she doesn’t know what else to do with the heavy weight in her chest except to begin recalculating her options. “I won’t avoid it.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of my projects are dead, I'm just insane for trying to work on six at once! Updates on my Discord server if you're curious (https://discord.gg/U5EuC6j).


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